


we are the crossroads

by epoenine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst with a Happy Ending, Delirium by Lauren Oliver, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Violence, Younger Enjolras, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:25:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1436611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epoenine/pseuds/epoenine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has Fantine's orders to follow, and if he wants to get out of here, they're both going to have to trust each other. All Grantaire knows is that he's starting to love Enjolras, and in a world where love is illegal, that's probably not the best idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are the crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> Please see endnotes for extended trigger warnings! There will be some spoilers.
> 
> Just to get things started, this is set in a world where love is thought of as a disease. If the authorities think you are sick with _deliria_ , they will give you a "cure". This cure takes away your ability to have strong emotions, such as love, passion, etc. Everything, the plot, some of the dialogue, the scenario, belongs to Lauren Oliver, who wrote the Delirium trilogy. Everything takes place in the second book, Pandemonium. This fic contains spoilers for that book, so tread with caution. You don't need to have read the trilogy in order to read this fic.
> 
> Oh, I forgot. The title is from Richard Siken's "Snow and Dirty Rain". I chose that poem because of this particular part:  
> "I made this place for you. A place for you to love me. If this isn't a kingdom I don't know what is."

It's the dead of winter, Grantaire can tell. There's something about the tiredness in everyone's eyes and the chill that seeps into their bones. Food is running low, because they can't hunt as much. Gavroche is sick, which keeps Eponine on edge. Firewood is scarce.

Everyone's close to giving up, but they keep going. Fantine and Combeferre keep planning for the trip into the city, past the fences and the guards. Gavroche makes sure to keep away from everyone, despite Courfeyrac's attempts to be near him. Joly searches the Wilds for what little medicinal herbs he can find. Jehan and Feuilly set traps in a weak attempt to make their meals out of fresh meat. Eponine and Bahorel check for supplies down at the river almost every day. The rest of the group tries to help out wherever they can.

Grantaire didn't know that life in the Wilds would be like this. Sure, he knew that Invalids had to scavenge, but he didn't know it would be like this. Everyone tense from Gavroche's sickness and Fantine, Combeferre, and Grantaire going into the city for the rally. They're all tired from loss of sleep, weak from skipping meals.

At least they're able to love, right? Grantaire has to hold back a laugh. Everyone used to be so naive, and now look where they are. Starving in the homestead and wishing they hadn't run away.

"Big day tomorrow," Eponine says, rousing Grantaire from his stupor. The others around the fire look towards her. "We should get some sleep." Her sharp edges soften until a smile spreads across her face as Gavroche looks at her with pleading eyes. "Even you, kid."

"Come on--" Gavroche starts, even though he's yawning, rubbing his tired eyes.

"No arguing, Gav," Eponine says, her voice turning stern. "Bed."

Marius pulls a sleepy Cosette back into the homestead. Everyone else soon follows them until it's just Fantine and Grantaire, watching the fire.

"R," Fantine murmurs, looking at him with worrying eyes. "Get some sleep. We head into Paris tomorrow." She looks tired, the circles under her eyes greater than the ones the others wear.

"You, too," he says, and he heads back into the house, where he settles on his cot. He lets his eyes slip shut, preparing himself for what tomorrow will bring him.

*

Grantaire pulls at his too-tight sweater and the thick jacket covering him. Even after being here for a month, he's still not used to the clean, fitting clothes. He's not used to the life of the cureds.

The auditorium is huge, full of hundreds of boring, dull cureds, hanging onto every word the man up on the podium is saying. He's Antoine, founder of the DFF-- _Deliria_ -free France. He's working towards a future with no trace of deliria across the country.

"The doctors talk of risk and harm, damage and side effects," Antoine says, voice ringing throughout the auditorium, "but what about the youth of France, susceptible to this disease?" A burst of applause. Grantaire goes along with it, claps his hands, not wanting to draw attention to himself. "We must ensure the safety of our children, we must lower the age for the cure."

Again, Grantaire claps along with the crowd. This is the job he's been given by Fantine: Watch the DFF meeting. Observe. Blend.

Antoine continues with his speech, but Grantaire's not here to listen. He looks above him, up at the flourescent lights and the high ceiling. Below him, at the ugly, brown carpet. To his left, a cured woman sits next to him, eyes trained on the stage. On his right side, another cured woman, sniffling away her cold.

He looks to the stage, sees the red curtains in the background. A roped off area sits at the left of the stage, with a row of chairs.

Only one of the chairs are occupied, and it's by a boy. Grantaire's eyes catch on him, and they stay there, observing. His narrow face is framed by curly blond hair, and his blue eyes are bright and passionate. Even from this distance, Grantaire can see the smattering of freckles across his nose. He's wearing, surprisingly, a casual, red, short-sleeved shirt and dark blue jeans.

The boy is Julien Enjolras, the son of the founder of the DFF. A hero, a martyr to the cause. He will be cured on the day of the rally, and he might die. This is well known.

Onstage, Antoine is closing his speech. "We are aware of the risks," he explains. "But the consequences of waiting is what is standing between us and a _Deliria_ -free France. There is danger insisting that the cure be administered earlier, but there is a greater danger in delaying the cure."

He clears his throat, eyes scanning the crowd. "I'd like to introduce you to a young man who embodies all the values of the DFF. He understands, more than anyone, the importance of insisting on a cure, even for those who are young, even for those who might be endangered by its administration. Please welcome, my son, Julien Enjolras."

The audience sounds an applause as Antoine leaves the stage and the boy takes it. Enjolras looks at the faces in the audience, settling on Grantaire's with an intensity that might suggest he recognizes him. But he can't, because they've never met before.

Enjolras adjusts the microphone; he's tall, taller than his father. They don't look much alike, what with the hard edges of Antoine and the soft fairness of Enjolras. Where Antoine eyes are dark and unforgiving, Enjolras's are impossibly blue.

He runs a hand through his hair. Grantaire would think he's nervous, if not for the fact that Enjolras's voice is calm and steady when he speaks.

"I was nine years old when the doctors told me I was dying," he states, bluntly. A few people gasp, some shake their heads. Grantaire tries to stay detached. "That's when the seizures started. The first time, I nearly bit off my tongue. The second seizure was worse; I cracked my head against the fireplace." He pauses, looking down at the notecards he placed on the podium, and then looks back up. "My parents were concerned."

There it is, the thing that explains it all. A world without love, a world with cureds who are just concerned when their child has life-threatening seizures. Not heartbroken, or frantic, or desperate. Just concerned.

"The doctors said it was a brain tumor that caused the seizures. The operation to remove it could result in death, but without it--if they let the tumor grow and expand--I had no chance at all." Enjolras shoots a look to his father, who sits with his legs crossed, his face expressionless. "The growth had to be cut away from the clean tissue. Otherwise, it would only spread, turning the remaining healthy tissue sick."

Enjolras shuffles his notes and Grantaire can see him swallow hard.

"The first operation went smoothly, and the cancer went away. Three years later, they were back, this time at the base of my brain stem," explains Enjolras. There is silence, and someone coughs. The woman next to Grantaire sneezes. Enjolras's hands tighten on the side of the podium.

Behind Enjolras, his face is magnified onto a screen. His eyes are a swirl of a blue that betrays the practiced calm, just for a moment, and shows a flicker of an emotion that Grantaire doesn't have a name for.

"I've had three operations since the first one," he goes on to say. "The doctors have removed the tumor four times, and three times it has regrown, as sickness will, unless it is removed swiftly and completely." Enjolras pauses, once again, letting the statement sink in. "I've been cancer free for two years."

A smattering of applause. Someone shouts. A few whistle. Enjolras gives a smile.

"Any more surgeries and I'd be left with no tissue at all. If I am cured, I might lose the ability to regulate my emotions. If I am cured," he continues, "I might lose the ability to speak, to see, to move. It is possible that my brain might shut down completely."

Just like the rest of the audience, Grantaire holds his breath. Only Antoine looks relaxed, still emotionless. Idly, Grantaire wonders if he was as bad of a father as his own was, and the thought quickly deteriorates. Nothing before the Wilds matter, like Fantine had told them.

Enjolras continues his well practiced speech. "Because of this, they refuse to cure me. We have been fighting for a procedure date for over a year, and finally, it's been set to the day of the rally. On Friday, I will be cured."

More applause. This time, Grantaire doesn't join in.

"I understand the risks, and whether or not the day will be my last, it will be historic." His voice becomes louder, stronger. The eyes on the screen are flashing, dazzling, full of light. "There is no choice. We must excise the sickness, or else it will spread. We must cut away the sickness, wherever it is, whatever the consequences are. Just like the cancer, the _deliria_ will spread and no one will be safe. This is why we must lower the age for the cure. Thank you."

And then he's done, walking off stage while the audience claps. Grantaire claps along with them, until people file out into the chilled spring air. Grantaire follows, squinting against the sun and he makes his way towards the bus.

It's then that he realizes he left his gloves. Both of them, probably sitting on the arm of his chair. Biting back a curse, Grantaire turns around, knowing what the next winter will be like in the Wilds. He can't afford to lose his gloves.

Pulling open the auditorium doors, Grantaire steps inside, and on the screen is a picture of a beach, waves rolling across sand. Grantaire hasn't seen the ocean since Marseille. Another picture comes up, this time a river in the middle of an overgrown forest. Another picture, vast, rolling hills of fields filled with grape vines. Another picture, a meadow with wildflowers.

Grantaire lets go of the breath he didn't know he was holding and steps forward, bumping into one of the chairs. In the front row, someone stands, jumping to their feet.

"What are you doing here?" It's Enjolras, glaring at Grantaire with a scowl. "The DFF meeting ended." Underneath the anger, Grantaire can see embarrassment.

Grantaire steps to his right, picking up the set of gloves on the seat. He's thankful he chose to sit in the back. "Lost my gloves," he explains.

"Oh," Enjolras says, his voice a shade softer. The conversation doesn't sound ended, so Grantaire stays, shifting on his feet until Enjolras chooses to speak. He breaks the silence with, "How many pictures did you see?"

Grantaire clears his throat, staring into the blue eyes. "I saw the ocean," he answers, not bothering with a lie.

Enjolras raises his chin, eyes defiant. "We're looking for strongholds. Invalid camps," he explains. "We're using advanced surveillance techniques."

Grantaire nods, even though he can tell Enjolras is lying. It's still progress, through; a year ago, someone like Enjolras wouldn't have uttered the word Invalid. A year ago, Invalids were just a myth.

Grantaire forces himself to smile, politely. "I hope you find them," he says. "I hope you find every last one of them." He adds, "Before they find you."

"What?" Enjolras's voice echoes in the auditorium.

"Before they find us," Grantaire amends, shooting a look at Enjolras over his shoulder before leaving.

*

The morning of the rally is surprisingly warm. Grantaire feels the change in temperature the minute he wakes. In the kitchen, Fantine has coffee made. It's a small miracle.

"Grantaire," she greets. Her eyes flick over to Combeferre, slouched over a mug of his own. They haven't had coffee in what seems like forever. "Remember your job?"

"Watch Enjolras," Grantaire answers, nodding. He drinks the coffee black, sitting down in a chair beside Feuilly.

"Not just that," replies Fantine. She shifts the weight on her feet, crossing her arms. "Don't take your eyes off him, understand? No matter what happens." When Grantaire looks up at her, he can see that her jaw is set and her eyes are serious.

Grantaire nods, though he asks, "Why?" He's known Fantine long enough that he doesn't expect an answer; she's very secretive when it comes to the Resistance.

"Because," Fantine responds, curtly. "I said so." Grantaire mouths the last part with her. Combeferre sees, and he suppresses a smile.

Thousands upon thousands of people will be at the rally today. Everyone is crowded around one another, waiting for their bus to arrive. Fantine makes sure that Grantaire has everything with him, leading him and Feuilly through the crowd, towards their bus.

Groups that oppose the DFF will be there, too. While the idea is that the rally will stay peaceful, there might also be some violence. Rumors are spreading that Scavengers could show up and turn it into a riot.

Grantaire wasn't nervous this morning. His job is easy, it's simple, there's no way he could mess it up. Right now, though, in a crowd with the largest number of people he's ever seen, he can feel anxiety crawl up his throat.

"Come on, move up," says a regulator, a hand on Grantaire's back. He follows Fantine onto the bus, waiting as she chooses an empty seat. Instead of sitting with her, Combeferre slides in next to Grantaire. Fantine shoots him a look.

"I'm just making sure he's okay," Combeferre says under his breath, though Grantaire still hears him. He turns, looking Grantaire over. "You feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," Grantaire replies, though it comes out strangled and choked. It's a blatant lie, but he can't really discuss his anxieties here on a public bus. One woman has already turned around in her seat, eyeing them curiously.

Combeferre nods, reaching into the backpack he's set on the ground. He hands over an umbrella, telling Grantaire, "It's supposed to rain later." Through the glass of the window, Grantaire can see that the sky is perfectly blue, not a cloud in sight. He opens his mouth to protest, but something in Combeferre's eyes makes him stay silent.

Grantaire accepts it, stowing it away in his own backpack, where it sits with a half-empty water bottle, a granola bar, and his DFF handbook.

The bus ride is loud and fairly short. Within minutes it's pulling up to the building where the rally will be held, and the regulators are filing people off the bus. A few steps towards the building and Grantaire realizes, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that they haven't made a plan for after the rally. He turns around, ready to shout Fantine's name, but neither her or Combeferre are anywhere to be found.

"You're holding the line up," a regulator tells him. He tries to nod, making his way over to security. He tells himself to breathe while a regulator pats him down, checks his neck for the signature scar that says he's been cured. The regulator scans his ID and thankfully doesn't put it through the Secure Validation System. Still, Grantaire makes it through security in just over an hour.

Finally, Grantaire makes it to the rally. All around him, people are talking, loudly, and it fills Grantaire's ears with white noise. He tries to move forward in the crowd, making his way to the front, where his breath catches in his throat.

They've built a raised platform, a dais, at one end of the huge, open plaza. Above it, there's a billboard larger than any Grantaire has ever seen. It's plastered with signs for the DFF: red and white squares, fluttering lightly in the wind.

The dais is wired with microphones and equipped with chairs; behind it is a video screen, the kind the DFF uses at the meetings, but bigger. Men in uniforms are making last-minute adjustments.

Enjolras will be up on the dais, Grantaire is sure of it, and somehow, he'll have to get closer. He starts forward, trying to slip through the cracks between bodies. It's hardly working. He has to elbow and gently push and fight the wave of anxiety that washes over him. If the Scavengers do come, or if anything happens, really, there'll be no room to run. They're trapped, people will trample one another trying to get out.

But the Scavengers won't come, Grantaire tells himself. It's too dangerous. There's too many police here, too many regulators, too many guns. They wouldn't dare show up at the rally, not today.

After what seems like an eternity of pushing through people, Grantaire makes it to the front. Through a blur of bodyguards and police officers, he can just make out Enjolras.

He's dressed nicely, this time. A light blue button-up is stretched over his chest, and he's wearing another pair of dark blue jeans. His hair curls just behind his ears. Remarkably, Enjolras is shifting foot to foot, trying to conceal his nervousness.

Grantaire tries not to notice how beautiful he looks up there, under the bright fluorescent lights. Instead, he wonders what's so important about him. It could be that he's Antoine's son, or that he's the martyr to the cause, or that he's the symbol of the DFF. It could be anything, really, but Grantaire seems transfixed on the way he's burning with passion.

 _I was nine when I was told I was dying_ , Enjolras had said. Idly, Grantaire wonders what it's like to die slowly. He wonders what it's like to die quickly. That's when he squeezes his nails into his palm, taking in gulps of air.

The talking gets louder, and Grantaire can just make out a chant. Even though he doesn't believe in any of it--the words, the cause, the people around him--it still amazes him. He looks around, at the people yelling the chant. They're fighting for nothing, Grantaire realizes. They're doing all of this for nothing.

Just as the chanting reaches a crescendo, Antoine takes the stage. "Thank you," he interrupts, holding up a hand to silence the crowd. The chanting grows louder, stronger, even. A sharp, screeching sound breaks through the chatter. Antoine winces, cups his hand over the microphone, and leans back to mutter instructions to someone. The angle of his neck shows off the three-pronged scar perfectly, showing the place where he’s been cured.

Grantaire looks to Enjolras. He stands, arms crossed, looking at his father. His eyes are bright, almost manically so.

"Thank you," Antoine tries again. The chant dies down. "Much better," he says, flashing a smile. "I'm glad you could be here--"

That's when it happens. There's three, small explosions. No one is hurt, but someone screams, high-pitched and terrified. And then, everything erupts around him. People panic, pushing and shoving at each other.

Figures in black appear from nowhere, from everywhere. They're climbing up the sewers, materializing from the ground, taking shape behind the smoke. They're sliding down the side of buildings on rope, jumping to the ground and getting ready to steal. Silver flashes and Grantaire thinks, faintly, that they're armed.

It's the Scavengers, and Grantaire scolds himself for being so stupid. His hands start to shake as he looks around, trying to make sense of the panic.

Gunshots fill the air. Police have opened fire. All around him, Scavengers are stealing, assaulting people while they can, while the police are still figuring out what's going on.

Someone knocks Grantaire to the ground, and he can feel a crushing weight on his back. He jabs his elbow backwards, connecting it with muscle and bone, and he hears a groan. Grantaire pushes the person off of him and gets to his feet.

Enjolras is gone. Grantaire was supposed to be watching him. No matter what happens, he's supposed to keep his eyes on Enjolras, and now he's gone.

Piercing screams. The smell of fire, of smoke.

To Grantaire's left, he sees the sight of golden hair and impossible blue eyes. It's Enjolras, being ushered towards one of the old subway entrances. It's closed off with plywood, barricaded so no one can get through. One of the bodyguards pushes the plywood inwards.

Not a barrier, but a door.

Within seconds, Enjolras is gone again and the sheet of wood swings closed.

More gunshots fill Grantaire's ears as he runs towards the subway entrance, pushing people out of the way. And then, just like before, he's pushed towards the ground, the wind knocked out of him.

It's a Scavenger. A woman. "Give me the bag," she says, narrowing her eyes. "Come on, hurry up. I don't have all day." The knife she has in her hands is intimidating. As she leans down, making to grab it, he swings the backpack upwards, knocking her off balance.

Grantaire gets to his feet and surges forward, pushing the plywood away, opening the subway entrance. He hesitates, and behind him, there's another gunshot. A body thuds to the ground.

Hurriedly, he goes inside, surrounded by darkness and a musky smell. His eyes adjust to the dimness as he listens for sounds, for quiet murmuring and footsteps. Instead, he hears nothing but a drip beside him.

Grantaire makes his way farther down the tunnel, body tense and waiting for a fight. Still, the dripping continues, and he thinks there must be a leaking pipe somewhere.

Faintly, he hears something. A low groan, a voice moaning out in pain. It's coming from farther down the tunnel, and it must be Enjolras.

Then, that's when he sees it. A man is strung from a grate in the ceiling, a belt looped tightly around his bulging neck. Grantaire can't see the man's face, but he must be one of Enjolras's bodyguards. At his feet, there's another, this one with a knife sticking out of his back.

Grantaire stumbles backwards, forgetting to be quiet. Enjolras's voice again, fainter, "Please--" Grantaire doesn't know where it's coming from, can't think of anything but getting out of here, getting way.

He runs in the opposite direction, blindly, until he slams into a wall, panic making him clumsy. Two dark shapes unfold from either side of him.

"Not so fast," one of them says, grabbing Grantaire's wrist. He can't fight back. Then, searing pain, a flash of white. Grantaire tumbles into darkness.

*

When Grantaire wakes, all he feels is pain. Inside his head, behind his eyes, a pressure that increases with every seconds. It's not the familiar hangover, it's different, and for a second, he's delirious, wondering where he is and what's happened.

Opening his eyes, he squints against the bright light that's in the center of the ceiling. He's in a windowless, tiny, stone room. There are no sinks, just a small bucket in the corner. The mattress he's lying on is thin, stained in hundreds of places, and without sheets.

Memories return, and Grantaire feels his heart speed. Instantly, he tries to sit up and is overcome with dizziness, dropping back down onto the mattress. Letting out a groan, he throws a hand over his eyes.

"Water helps."

This time, Grantaire does sit up, whipping around despite the pain. Enjolras is sitting on a narrow cot behind him, watching Grantaire through heavy-lidded eyes. He's holding a cup, which he extends towards Grantaire.

"They brought it earlier," he explains. His voice is rougher than usual. There is a long, thin gash that runs from his eyebrow to his jaw, caked with dried blood, and a bruise on the left side of his forehead, just beneath his hairline.

Even though they're trapped and their escape is unlikely, Grantaire notices how beautiful he is. He pushes the thought away, looking towards the door behind Enjolras, who shakes his head. "Locked from the outside." Prisoners, then.

"Who's they?" Grantaire asks, even though he knows. He plays the part of oblivious cured, not the uncured Invalid. Enjolras just shakes his head. Grantaire sees the bruises on his neck, wondering if they choked him. Some blood has dripped onto his ripped shirt. He seems surprisingly calm, his head almost lazily resting against the wall, hand holding the cup steady.

Only his eyes are restless, that vivid, improbable blue. Alert and watchful. Grantaire pushes the thought away once more.

Grantaire reaches out to take the cup from him, but at the last second, Enjolras draws it away a fraction of an inch. "I remember you," he announces. Something flickers in his eyes. "From the meeting. You lost your gloves."

"Yeah," replies Grantaire, reaching for the cup again. The water tastes rusty, but it soothes his throat. He must have screamed. Once he's started drinking, he realizes how thirsty he is, but he leaves a half of inch of water left, returning it to Enjolras.

"You can finish it," Enjolras tells him, and Grantaire doesn't argue, just shrugs and downs the rest of the water. He can feels Enjolras's eyes on him again, and when Grantaire looks up, he can sees Enjolras's eyes trained on the three-pronged scar on his neck. It seems to reassure Enjolras.

Miraculously, Grantaire still has his backpack. Everything is still in it, even the granola bar. He's not starving yet, though, so he doesn't eat it. Standing up, Grantaire tries the door. Locked, like Enjolras said, but there's a smaller one towards the bottom.

"That's where they put the water through," Enjolras says. "Food, too. I ate it all, though. Didn't know how long you'd be out."

Grantaire shrugs, again, turning to sit back on his mattress. "I would've done the same."

Food, water, an underground cell. Those are the facts. Grantaire can tell they're underground because of the pattern of the mold at the top of the walls--it means that there's dirt all around them. It means that, essentially, they're buried.

But, if they wanted them dead, they'd be dead. That is also a fact. It's not particularly comforting. If the Scavengers kept them alive, it means that they're planning something far worse than death.

"What do you remember?" Grantaire asks, voice cutting through the silence. Enjolras looks at him, brows furrowed together. He looks confused. "About the attack. Noises, smells, order of events?" When Grantaire locks eyes with him, Enjolras looks away, breaking eye contact.

He must be in denial. That's why he's staying so calm. He must be reassuring himself that bodyguards will come and rescue him and then they'd be safe and live happily ever after, that's what he must be thinking--

"I don't remember anything," Enjolras says, interrupting Grantaire's internal rant.

"Try," Grantaire tells him.

Enjolras shakes his head, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. "When the Invalids came during the rally..." Grantaire winces as he pronounces the word, biting his lip to correct him. Scavengers, not Invalids. We're not all the same, he thinks.

"Go on," Grantaire says instead, prompting him to continue. He tears his eyes away from Enjolras, bloodied and bruised and beautiful. It seems to make it easier to speak when Grantaire isn't looking at him.

"My father's bodyguards grabbed me and dragged me towards the emergency exit. We'd planned it earlier, in case something like this happened. We were supposed to go in the tunnels and wait for my father." His voice catches just the slightest bit, but he turns it into a cough. "The tunnels were dark, so one went looking for the flashlights. They'd stashed them earlier. Then we heard--then we heard a shout, and a cracking noise.”

Fleetingly, Grantaire feels bad for him. He's seen a lot, and quickly, too. But then again, he and his father are the reason the Scavengers exist, they're the reason they're forced to exist. The DFF and organizations like it have taken out all the feeling in the world. They've turned everyone into cold, heartless animals.

"The other bodyguard went ahead to make sure he was okay. He told me not to move, so I waited there. Then, I felt someone squeezing my throat from behind, lifting me off the ground. I couldn't breathe; everything went blurry. Someone was coming towards me, and then they hit me." He gestures to the side of his head. "I passed out. When I woke up, I was in here. With you."

"You don't remember anything else?" Enjolras shakes his head. "No one spoke or said anything to you?" Again, he shakes his head, but Grantaire has the feeling he's lying. He doesn't push it. Instead, he closes his eyes, and the headache slams back into him.

"What now?" Enjolras asks. There's a small hint of desperation in his voice. He sounds lost. Grantaire realizes that he isn't in denial, he isn't calm. Enjolras is scared--terrified, even--and trying to fight it.

"Now, we wait," Grantaire says simply.

Time passes. It could be minutes, hours. Grantaire doesn't know. He's just thankful that Enjolras knows how to be quiet. He stays on his cot, and whenever Grantaire isn't looking at him, he can feel Enjolras's eyes on him, traveling over his arms, his legs, his unruly dark hair.

Sometime later, Enjolras asks, "When did you have your procedure?"

"November," Grantaire answers automatically. It's not exactly a lie. Bahorel gave him the scar to make it look like he'd been cured, but it had been in November.

Over and over again, Grantaire asks himself the same questions. Why bring them here? Why keep them alive? Enjolras, he can understand, what with being the symbol of the DFF. He's worth something. But Grantaire? He's nothing. Just an Invalid that happened to be following Enjolras.

"Did it hurt?" Enjolras asks. Grantaire looks up at him, stunned by the clarity of his eyes.

"A little," Grantaire lies. Another casual, nonchalant shrug to cover up his nervousness. Enjolras nods, quiet for a while. Then, he speaks.

"I hate hospitals," he says, looking away. "Labs, scientists, doctors. All that."

A few beats of silence stretch between them. "Aren't you used to it by now?" Grantaire asks, mostly because he can't help it.

The corners of his mouth turn upwards. Surprisingly, he gives a small smile. "I guess there are things you just never get used to," he replies.

"I guess so," Grantaire says, tonelessly.

Later on, there's a thump outside the door. Grantaire's been lying on his cot, preserving his strength, but now he sits up.

"What?" Enjolras asks. Grantaire holds his hand up to silence him, shooting him a look. Footsteps on the other side of the door. Then, the small door slides open.

Instantly, Grantaire dives to the ground, trying to get a glimpse of the people outside of it, the captors. He lands hard on his right shoulder as a tray clatters through the opening and the metal flap slides shut again.

"Goddamn," Grantaire mutters, sitting up and kneading his shoulder. The tray holds two thick chunks of bread and several ropes of beef jerky. There's a bottle filled with water, too. Not bad, considering the stuff Grantaire's had to eat in the Wilds.

"See anything?" Enjolras asks. Grantaire shakes his head. "If you did, it wouldn't help much, I guess." He hesitates before joining Grantaire on the ground.

"Information always helps," Grantaire says, sharper than intended. Something else he's learned from Fantine. Of course Enjolras wouldn't understand. People like him have been pushing the thought of Invalids existing way for years, they've pushed away information that has been useful so they can stay ignorant. People like Enjolras don't want to know, or think, or choose anymore; that's part of the point. The cure would take that away from him, so staying ignorant comes easily.

They both reach for the water, and their hands touch. Enjolras jerks back, like Grantaire's touch burned him.

"Go ahead," Grantaire says.

"You first," he says, voice stronger.

Grantaire gives in, taking the water and beginning to sip. Enjolras tears pieces off his chunk of bread, trying to make it last. Grantaire can tell he's starving.

"Have my bread," Grantaire says, though he's not sure why. It isn't smart; Grantaire will need all the strength he can get, if he's going to break out of here.

Enjolras stares at him, blue eyes looking wary. He licks his lips, swallowing hard. "Are you sure?" he asks. When he blinks, his lashes touch the tops of his cheekbones.

"Take it," Grantaire insists, shoving the tray towards him. Enjolras eats the second piece almost greedily. Grantaire can tells he's never had to starve a day in his life, of the course he hasn't. Unlike Grantaire, who's gone days without food in the Wilds.

Grantaire passes Enjolras the water bottle, and he hesitates before bringing it to his mouth.

"You can't catch it from me," Grantaire tells him.

"What?" Enjolras starts a little, like Grantaire has interrupted a long period of silence.

"The disease. _Amor deliria nervosa_. You can't catch it from me. I'm safe." Grantaire taps the side of his neck, finger presses on his scar. He gives Enjolras a wicked grin, like it's an inside joke. It almost is, a joke he can only share with himself. "Besides, you can't catch it from sharing water and food. That's just a myth."

"You can get it from kissing," Enjolras says, after a pause. His voice sounds like he's reciting from the DFF handbook. Dull, boring, toneless, except for the way his voice catches before using the word kissing. It's not used that often anymore.

"That's different," Grantaire says, though it's not, but he's playing the part of oblivious cured, and it's what he needs to say.

"Anyway, I'm not worried about that," he says. It comes out forced. Enjolras takes a gulp of water, as if to prove the point.

"What are you worried about, then?" Grantaire can't help but asking. He takes the piece of jerky, leaning back against the wall as he eats. Enjolras won't meet his eyes.

"I just haven't spent that much time with anyone," he says, shaking his head. "Anyone my own age, really." He meets Grantaire's eyes, for a second, and Grantaire can feel something ache behind his breastbone. Enjolras's eyes have changed. What once was a startling, electric color is now an ocean of deep blues, tinged with golds.

Enjolras feels like he's said too much, Grantaire can tell. He stands up, walking towards the door, pacing. It's the first sign of agitation Grantaire has seen from him all day. Enjolras must be used to bottling it up, setting it aside. Staying still and calm, like earlier.

"Why do you think they're keeping us here?" Enjolras asks. The tone of his voice--desperate, frantic, confused--startles Grantaire. He's never seen Enjolras like this.

"I don't know," Grantaire says, truthfully. "Ransom, probably."

Enjolras runs his finger over his lip, where it's split. He considers this. "My father will pay," he decides. "I'm useful to the cause, valuable to the movement. He'll pay," he says again, almost like he's trying to reassure himself.

Grantaire doesn't say anything, stuck on the fact that in a world without love, this is what people are to each other. They're values, benefits, liabilities, numbers and data. Not a father getting back his son, but a leader gaining back his martyr.

"He won't like dealing with the Invalids, though," Enjolras adds, thoughtfully. A chill runs down Grantaire's spine. Before he can stop himself, he's speaking.

"You don't know they're responsible for this," he says, and immediately regrets it. He's not an Invalid here, in this room with the symbol of the Deliria-free France.

Enjolras frowns at Grantaire, eyebrows furrowing together. "You saw them at the demonstration, didn't you?" It's a question he already knows the answer to. Grantaire stays quiet. "I don't know, maybe what happened is a good thing. Maybe now people will understand why this has to happen."

God, his eyes are filled with that beautiful, passionate fury and his voice is stronger, like he's addressing a crowd. Grantaire wonders how many times he has had the same words, the same ideas, drilled into his head. Grantaire wonders if he ever doubts. Suddenly, Grantaire is overcome with disgust for this boy, and his calm certainty about the world.

Grantaire doesn't say any of that, though. Only says, "I hope so," before going to his cot, curling up toward the wall so Enjolras will know he's done speaking.

Sometime later, Grantaire drifts off to sleep. He opens his eyes to blackness, blinking furiously at the images his nightmare provided. The electric light has been turned off, surrounded them both in darkness.

"Can't sleep?" Enjolras asks. His voice startles Grantaire, coming from no direction and all directions. It's confusing, in the pitch black, tiny room.

"I was," Grantaire says. His voice is thick with sleep, rough and hoarse. "What about you? Sleep okay?"

"No," Enjolras answers. His voice sounds softer now, much more quieter than it was before. "It's stupid, but--I have bad dreams. Nightmares." He speaks the words in a rush, obviously embarrassed. "I always have."

Grantaire feels his breath hitch, a tightening in his chest. It leaves as quickly as it came. They are on opposite sides, Enjolras and Grantaire. Where Enjolras is fighting against the Resistance, Grantaire is fighting for it. There can never be any sympathy between them.

"They say it will get better after the procedure," Enjolras continues. His voice is even quieter now, he says the words almost like an apology. Grantaire can hear the silent If I even make it added onto the end. Enjolras coughs, clearing his throat. "Did you have any nightmares, before you were cured?"

Grantaire thinks of the cured, sleeping dreamlessly in their beds, ignorant to the world outside of their lives.

"No," Grantaire says, rolling over to pretend to sleep.

*

Enjolras's voice breaks through the silence, startling Grantaire. "Tell me a story," he says, and Grantaire knows better than to jump at the sudden sound.

"What?" It makes no sense; why would Enjolras want Grantaire to tell him a story? All they do is sit here for hours, waiting for their next meal like the prisoners they are. They don't converse like this.

"Tell me a story," he repeats. Manically, his mouth turns upwards into a smile. "Come on, it'll make time go faster." The light is back on, brighter than it was yesterday. It must have been recharged, or something. All Grantaire can think is how it turns Enjolras's eyes into that impossible blue, like before.

The Scavengers brought breakfast earlier. More water, beef jerky, bread. Grantaire got a glimpse of dark pants as a rough male voice directed Grantaire to pass the old tray through the sliding door, which he did.

"I don't know any stories," Grantaire says, exhausted. Enjolras is comfortable with looking at him now, and he feels restless under Enjolras's gaze.

"Tell me about your life, then," Enjolras states. Another smile is flashed at Grantaire. They are becoming less rare. "I never said it had to be a good story."

Grantaire sighs, beginning. "What do you want to know? I was born in Marseille. My family moved to Paris when I was six. I got held back, because of that. I don't have a match, yet. My evaluation date is at the end of the semester."

"Those are just facts," Enjolras complains. "That's not a story."

Exasperated, Grantaire says, "Fine." He goes to sit on his cot, turning to look at Enjolras. "If you're such an expert, then, why don't you tell me a story instead?"

Enjolras tilts his head back, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully. The cut on his lip looks worse and the bruise on his forehead has turned green and yellow; the cut on his cheek could be infected.

Finally, Enjolras says, "Once, when I was young, I saw two people kissing in public."

"At a marriage ceremony?" Grantaire asks. He's used to people kissing now that he's living in the Wilds. Cosette and Marius, Courfeyrac and Combeferre, Joly and Bossuet with the addition of Musichetta. They all share intimate kisses without anybody giving them a second glance. Some freedoms are appreciated more than others.

"No," Enjolras answers. "On the street. They were protesters; it was right in front of the DFF. I don't know if they weren't cured or if the procedure didn't work on them. I was six years old, I think. They were--"

He falters, glancing away. Grantaire pushes, "What?"

"They were using their tongues." His cheeks flush. He looks at Grantaire for just a second before tearing his eyes away, staring at the wall. The more intimate the kiss is, the more illegal it is. It's considered dirty, disgusting, a symptom of the disease taken root.

"What did you do?" Grantaire questions. His head is leaning against the wall, staring down at Enjolras with half-lidded, tired eyes.

Enjolras smiles, again, this time outright grinning. "At first, I thought he was eating her." Grantaire laughs, feeling the tension leak out of him. Once he's started laughing, he can't stop, and that makes Enjolras join in, wincing in pain. "Okay," he says, regaining his breath. "Your turn."

"Wait--" Grantaire starts. "What happened after that?"

Enjolras shakes his head, confused. "The police came," he says, like it should be obvious. "They were taken into quarantine."

All of the laughter drains out of Grantaire, and he is no longer relaxed. He feels sick. He just laughed with Enjolras, just shared something with him, like they're friends, like they're on the same side. Again, he feels disgusted at this boy, but mostly himself.

"Your turn," Enjolras says once more.

Grantaire shakes his head. "I don't have any stories." His voice is harsh, angry. Enjolras's brows furrow.

"Everyone has--" he starts to say, but Grantaire cuts him off.

"I don't." Grantaire turns his head away, sitting in silence. The rest of the day passes by, and they don't exchange a word. A few times, Enjolras opens his mouth like he's going to speak, but he closes it. Eventually, Grantaire lays back down on the cot, pretending to sleep.

Once the electric light clicks off, sleep does come, but only for a little while. All too soon, Grantaire is sitting up, his heartbeat pounding. Next to him, Enjolras is tossing on his cot, mumbling nonsense into his pillow.

"Hey," Grantaire says softly. Enjolras kicks out, again, and the metal bed frame rattles. "Hey, Enjolras," he says, a little louder this time.

The muttering doesn't stop, and neither does the kicking. Moving over to Enjolras's cot, Grantaire puts a hand on his shoulder, shaking a little as he says, "Wake up, Enjolras."

Finally, Enjolras wakes, gasping and jerking away from Grantaire's touch. Grantaire sits back down onto his cot. Through the darkness, Grantaire can make out his shoulders and the curve of his spine. He's breathing hard, and a rasping sound comes from his throat.

Lying awake in the dark, Grantaire waits for Enjolras's breathing to slow. "More nightmares?" he asks, voice quiet.

Hesitating, Enjolras answers, "Yes."

"Talking about it helps, sometimes," Grantaire tells him, an open invitation to talk about. A minute of silence stretches out between them, and Grantaire beginning to think that Enjolras fell back asleep.

Then, Enjolras speaks, in a rush. "I was in a lab complex, and they were going to cure me. My father held me down while they did it, telling me that it won't hurt much, that it'll be fine. It did hurt, though. I mean, in the dream I thought it hurt, like they were sticking needles into my skin, into my brain."

"Go on," Grantaire whispers once Enjolras pauses.

"It was like a weight on my chest, I couldn't breathe. Then, I couldn't move, or speak." Again, he pauses, taking in a deep breath. "It felt real. It could happen." He lies back down, staring up at the ceiling.

"I have nightmares, too," Grantaire says. "I mean, I used to. Before I was cured," he amends. Even in the dark, he can feel Enjolras staring at him.

"Talking about it helps," Enjolras whispers. He sounds amused. "Sometimes."

"They were about my sister," he continues. He chokes a little on the word sister. It's been so long since he's talked about this. "She died when I was six."

Grantaire can hear Enjolras moving around on his cot. Then, Enjolras says, "Tell me about her." Grantaire can tell that he's turned towards him.

Slowly, Grantaire lets himself speak. "She liked to mess around in the kitchen. I remember, one time, I was sitting on the counter while she tried to make pancakes. We had to throw them way, in the end." Enjolras stays quiet, his breathing steady. "She used to play games with me, too," Grantaire says.

"She did?" Enjolras asks. There's a touch of awe in his voice.

"Yeah. Real games, too, not just the bullshit they put in the handbook. She used to pretend--" he stops, suddenly worried if he'd said too much.

"Pretend what?" Enjolras questions.

His old life, the one before the Wilds, it's all coming back to him. "She used to pretend she had this key that would lead us to other worlds. It's stupid, now, but it used to be my favorite. We'd make up new rules and live different lives," he says.

Quietly, Enjolras asks, "What was her name?"

"Rose," Grantaire answers, voice strained.

After a moment of quiet, Enjolras says, "I used to pretend things, too. In the hospitals, mostly. I'd change what things were. The beeping of the monitor was just the coffee machine, or the footsteps of the doctors were actually just my parents. The smell, though--you know how hospitals always smell like bleach, and just a little bit like flowers?--I'd pretend it was the nanny washing sheets."

"Funerals smell like that, too," Grantaire tells him. "Like bleach and flowers."

"I don't like that smell," says Enjolras. If he were less trained, less careful, he'd say hate. But he can't say it; it's too close to love, and love is amor deliria nervosa, the deadliest of all deadly things.

Enjolras says, "I used to pretend other things, too. I used to think about what it would be like to go--other places." He catches himself.

"Like where?" Grantaire asks him.

"Just around," he says finally. "To other cities." He's lying again, Grantaire can tell. It's something about his voice, how it's strained just a little, with forced nonchalance. Fantine taught him how to read into people's voices, figure out what they’re really saying.

Maybe Enjolras is talking about the Wilds, about the pictures that he was looking at after the DFF meeting. Maybe Enjolras wishes he could go to unbordered places, where love still exists, where it was supposed to have consumed everyone by now.

"It was just kid stuff," Enjolras explains. "The kind of stuff I'd do on nights in the labs, when I had tests and procedures. So I wouldn't be scared."

Grantaire thinks of nine-year-old Enjolras, pretending he could be somewhere else, where things were different. He thinks of a kid with blond hair and blue eyes, brave enough to sit through tests without screaming.

"Are you scared now?" Grantaire asks.

Enjolras hesitates, just for a second. "I'd be more scared if I were alone," he answers.

"Me, too," Grantaire replies. It's the truth. A rush of sympathy hits Grantaire, and he finds himself saying, "Enjolras?"

"Yeah?"

"Reach out your hand." Grantaire doesn't know why he says it. Maybe it's the darkness. Everything is more easier in the dark.

"Why?" Enjolras asks. His voice is cautious, but he doesn't sound afraid, or angry.

"Just do it," Grantaire says, and he can hear Enjolras shifting. He's moving, stretching his hand across the small space between their cots. Grantaire reaches out, finding Enjolras's. His hand is small and soft, and he jerks a little bit at the contact, but he doesn't pull away.

"Do you think we're safe?" he asks. His voice is hoarse. Grantaire doesn't know whether he's referring to the _deliria_ or the position they're in, but he lets Grantaire lace their fingers together.

"We'll be okay," Grantaire says, sounding sure of it. Enjolras squeezes his hand, surprising Grantaire. They hold hands in the dark, drifting off to sleep once again.

*

They eat their bread in silence, sharing the water. Grantaire shared too much last night, and now Enjolras is having trouble looking at him again. Instead of sitting on the floor, next to Enjolras, Grantaire paces the room.

"Are you going to do that all day?" Enjolras asks, his voice strained. He can feel the tension in the room, too.

"If it bothers you so much, don't watch," Grantaire snaps.

There's moments of silence. Then, he says, "My father will get me out of here, he'll pay up soon." Grantaire feels a surge of hatred towards him. Enjolras knows that no one will pay for Grantaire to be released, and Grantaire knows that he'll either be killed or left to rot.

Grantaire doesn't say anything. Hours pass, slowly, and Enjolras doesn't try to talk to him again. Finally, after what seems like forever, the light click off. Grantaire feels relieved, he made it through another dark. In the darkness, the tension dissipates, and he feels the exhaustion creep into him.

Surprisingly, Grantaire feels settled when he hears Enjolras lie down on his cot. His presence is comforting. The silence, instead of strained, feels forgiving.

After a while, Enjolras asks, "Are you asleep?"

Grantaire clears his throat. "Not yet." His voice is rough from not using it all day.

"Want to hear another story?" Grantaire hums an affirmative, and Enjolras continues. "Once, there was a really bad tornado, and there was this girl, Dorothy, and she fell asleep in her house. The whole house lifted into the sky, and when she woke up, she was in a strange land filled with little people, and her house landed on an evil witch. Flattened her. So all of the little people, they were really grateful, and they gave Dorothy a pair of magical slippers." He stops there and doesn't continue.

"Then what?" asks Grantaire.

"I don't know," he says. "That's as far as I got. I never read the rest."

Grantaire feels very, very awake. "I've never heard that story before," he says, trying to keep his voice calm. "Was it on the curriculum?"

"No," Enjolras answers. He hesitates, then clears his voice. "It was forbidden."

Grantaire's heart speeds up and his breathing quickens. "Where did you find a forbidden story?"

"My father knows a lot of important people in the DFF--government people, priests, scientists. He has access to a lot of things, like confidential documents and books that date from the time before, the time of sickness." Grantaire stays quiet, and he can hear Enjolras swallow before continuing. "When I was little, my father had two studies. One, where he did all of his DFF work. The other was always locked, and he hid the key. Except one day, I saw where he put it. It was really late, and I was supposed to be asleep, but I came out for a glass of water. He was on the landing, and I was up on the staircase. I saw him go over to the bookshelf in the living room. On the top shelf, there's this little glass case. He lifted the top and dropped the key inside.

"The next day, I pretended I was sick, so I wouldn't have to go to school. When he left for work, I snuck downstairs and got the key. I unlocked my father's second study." He laughs, shortly. "I don't think I've ever been so scared in my life. My hands shook so bad, I dropped the key three times. I don't know what I thought would be in there. Dead bodies, maybe, or locked-up Invalids."

Grantaire stiffens at the word, but he lets it pass by him, and relaxes once again.

"I opened the door, and there was all these books. Hundreds, probably. Every time I was home alone, I'd go back down to the study. There was music, too, way different from whatever they put on LAMM. All of it was about the deliria, but it wasn't hopeless. Everyone was supposed to be unhappy in the time before, right? Everyone was supposed to be sick. But some of the music..." he trails off. "You wouldn't believe it, R."

There's more aching behind Grantaire's breastbone.

"Anyway, my father caught me eventually. I was in the middle of the story I was telling you about-- _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ , if was called. I've never seen him so angry in my life. He's pretty calm, because of the cure, but that day he dragged me into the living room and beat me so hard I blacked out." Enjolras says it flatly, without feeling. "He said that would teach me what forbidden book could do. The next day I had my first seizure," he says, almost musingly.

"I'm sorry," Grantaire whispers, his voice choked.

"I don't blame him or anything," Enjolras says, clearing it up. "The doctors said the seizure might have saved my life. That's how they found the tumor. He was only trying to help me. Keep me safe, you know."

In that moment, Grantaire feels sorry for him. He slips in and out of consciousness, barely realizing it when Enjolras gets out of bed, kneeling next to Grantaire. When he feels fingers in his hair, he snaps awake.

"What are you doing?" Grantaire asks. His voice is strained.

"Sorry," Enjolras says, jerking his hand back. A few beats later, the touch is back, resting just slightly in Grantaire's tangled mess of curls. "Can I?"

Grantaire chokes out, "Yeah." Enjolras's fingers move, weaving through his hair. He runs his fingers lightly over Grantaire's forehead, down the crooked slope of his nose. Enjolras doesn't stop until Grantaire is asleep.

Morning comes quickly, and Grantaire wakes up to blue. It's Enjolras, staring right back at him. He looks away, but not fast enough. Grantaire supposes he's been watching him sleep.

"How long have you been awake?" Grantaire asks. The tension is back. In the light, everything feels strained and awkward. Grantaire wonders if he dreamt last night.

"A while," Enjolras confesses. "I couldn't sleep."

"Nightmares?" Grantaire asks. Each word is an effort.

"No," he answers, curtly, and the conversation is over. Silence stretches between them. It could be minutes or hours later when Enjolras asks, "Do you think they're going to kill us?" All at once the tension leaves the room. They're on the same side today.

"You said it yourself, you're too valuable to the cause," Grantaire replies, sitting up. He drags a hand over his face, exhausted even though he'd just woken up.

"What about you?" Enjolras continues. "Do you think they'll kill you?"

"Maybe," Grantaire says, truthfully. He can't be bothered to come up with a lie today. If the Scavengers were going to ransom Enjolras, surely his father would've payed them by now. Grantaire thinks about Antoine, thinks about him beating his nine-year-old son into unconsciousness. "What happened to your mother?"

"What?" Enjolras's voice is cold and hard.

"Your mother," Grantaire repeats. "You don't speak of her."

"You don't speak of your mother, either," Enjolras retorts. He's crossed his arms, mouth set in a flat line. Defensive.

"I don't speak _to_ my mother," Grantaire corrects. "You never mentioned yours, not once. All these stories, and she never came up."

Abruptly, Enjolras says, "She's dead." It's blunt.

"How did she die?" Grantaire tries his best not to sound bored. He tries his best for it to come out gentle, but he probably sounds irritated.

Enjolras nearly spits out the word. "Accident."

Grantaire can tell it's a touchy subject, but still, he continues. "What kind of accident?"

"It was a long time ago," he says shortly. Suddenly, he snaps. "Why do you care, anyway?”

Back to the oblivious cured. Dull, calm, unfazed. "I was just curious. You don't have to tell me anything," Grantaire states. His voice is emotionless. Fantine taught him well.

There might be panic is Enjolras's blue eyes. He stands, starts pacing with what little room they have in their cell. Grantaire sits back, taking pleasure in watching Enjolras come undone. He's losing it, and it's satisfying to know that down here, the protection and the certainty that the DFF offers means nothing.

They're on opposite sides again. The silence stretches, putting a distance between them that's safe and comfortable. This is how it should be. The DFF against the Invalids.

Even though it's time, water and food never come. Then, mid morning, there's a change in the air. There's no sound of dripping water or rush of stale, underground air. There's footsteps. For the first time in hours, Enjolras looks at Grantaire.

"Do you hear--" he starts, but Grantaire silences him. Frantically, he looks around for anything that could be used as a weapon. He's already tried to unscrew the metal bedposts. The bucket won't do anything. His backpack is useless, but any weapon is better than no weapon. He about to make a dive for it, but the door swings open, and in comes two Scavengers. Both are carrying guns.

"You," one of them says. It's a man with a shaved head. He points to Enjolras with the butt of his rifle. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Enjolras asks, though he has to know that they won't answer. He's standing, keeping his arms pressed to his sides. His voice is steady.

"We'll be asking the questions," says the man with the shaved head, and smiles, yellow teeth showing. He starts towards Enjolras, like he's stalking his prey. Grantaire's blood goes cold.

The man by the door catches his eyes. He must see his expression, because he says, "Don't even think about it. Hurry up, Thenardier.”

Enjolras, willingly, goes forward, walking gracefully out of the cell with both of them. He doesn't look at Grantaire once. Then, Grantaire is left alone and waiting.

For part of the time, Grantaire thinks Enjolras has been ransomed and released. Grantaire can't stop pacing. He tries not to think about what else they could be doing with Enjolras.

To keep himself busy, Grantaire unpacks and repacks his backpack. Then, he unpacks it again, laying the contents on the ground. A granola bar wrapper, because he gave it to Enjolras on the second night. A packaged antibacterial wipe. A tin water bottle, empty. An umbrella. A tube of mascara, probably Fantine's. The DFF handbook.

Through the walls, Grantaire thinks he hears a muffled shout. He tells himself it's just his imagination.

Grantaire picks up the handbook, flipping through the pages. About halfway through, someone has dog-eared a page. Grantaire stops, seeing that several words have been underlined. The excerpt comes from Chapter 22: Social History.

"When you consider how society may persist in ignorance, you must also consider how long it will persist in delusion; all stupidity is changed to inevitability, and all ills are made into values (choice turned to freedom, and love to happiness), so there is no possibility of escape."

The words have been forcefully underscored. _You. Must. Escape._

Flipping forward another few chapters, Grantaire finds another dog-eared page where words have been circled. It would look like nothing to someone else.

"The tools of a healthy society are obedience, commitment, and agreement. Responsibility lies both with the government and its citizens. Responsibility lies with you."

Someone--Combeferre, maybe?--has circled five words in the paragraph. _The tools are with you._

Frantically, Grantaire is now checking every page. A large star has been drawn next to Psalm 37.

"Through wind, and tempest, and storm, and rain;

The calm shall be buried inside of me;

A warm stone, heavy and dry;

The root, the source, a weapon against pain."

Grantaire reads through the psalm several times. Maybe Combeferre only meant to reassure Grantaire and keep him calm. Or, maybe the star was drawn in earlier. Maybe Grantaire has misunderstood and the markings are random, a fluke.

 _Through wind, and tempest, and storm, and rain._ Combeferre's umbrella. Grantaire's hands are shaking as he picks it up, examining it more closefully. Grantaire pulls and twists and nothing happens.

"Shit," Grantaire mutters, and he feels a little better. Again, "Shit, shit, shit." He pulls harder, trying to get it to budge. " _Shit_ ," he snaps, throwing the umbrella against the wall, hard. As it lands, the handle falls into halves and a knife clambers onto the ground. It's one of Feuilly's.

There's noise in the hallway. Grantaire crouches, trying to form a plan. Before he has time to make one up, the door is swinging open, and inside comes Enjolras, half-conscious, so bruised and bleeding that Grantaire only recognizes him from his hair and shirt. The door slams shut.

"Christ," Grantaire breathes. Enjolras looks like he's been mauled by a wild animal. His close are torn and stained with blood. For one moment, Grantaire thrown back in time to finding Cosette, deathly sick and bloodied all over. The vision retreats and it's Enjolras again, falling to his knees and coughing up blood.

"What happened?" Grantaire asks. He slips the knife under his mattress, kneeling down next to him. "What did they do to you?" Enjolras tries to talk, but all that comes out is a gurgling sound and then more coughing. He falls onto his elbows and for a second, Grantaire thinks he's going to die. He pushes the thought away. "Never mind, don't talk."

Grantaire slides his head into his lap and rolls him onto his back, grimacing when he sees his face. His right eye has swollen completely shut, and blood is flowing freely from a deep cut above his right eyebrow.

"Shit," Grantaire mutters. He's seen bad injuries before, but he's always been able to get to medical supplies. Right now, he has nothing. With shaking fingers, Grantaire unbuttons Enjolras's shirt. His chest looks unmarred, save for the few fading bruises from before. Managing to get his shirt of, Grantaire presses it to the wound on his forehead. Enjolras lets out a strangled sound.

"Hey," Grantaire says, trying to be soothing. "You're okay. Just breathe, it'll be okay, everything's going to be fine." He's mostly trying to reassure himself.

With what little water they have, Grantaire uses it to dampen the shirt in his hands, blotting his face with it. Remembering the antibacterial wipe a woman gave him at the rally, Grantaire's grateful for the DFF's obsession with cleanliness.

Grantaire unwraps it, wincing at the smell of alcohol. He knows it's going to hurt like hell, but if Enjolras gets an infection, there's no making it out of here.

"This is going to sting a little," Grantaire warms him before pressing the wipe to his skin. Enjolras's eyes fly open and he lets out another strangled sound, jerking upright.

"Hurts," he croaks, barely getting the word out. Grantaire presses him back down, wiping more of his face. Enjolras grits his teeth through all of it.

"Don't be baby," Grantaire says. Once all of the blood is gone, he gets a better look at what happened. The cut on his lip reopened, and he must have been hit repeatedly in the face. Other than that and the cut above his eyebrow, he'll be okay. He'll live. "Here." Grantaire presses the cup of water into his hands. "Drink."

When he's finished with the water, he closes his eyes again. His breathing isn't even, but it's better than it was before. Grantaire tears a strip of fabric from Enjolras's shirt, using it to tie around his head.

"Lift your head a little," Grantaire tells him, and Enjolras does. Grantaire ties the length of shirt low on his forehead, knotting it close to the gash so it forms a sort of tourniquet. "Can you tell me what happened, now?"

"Wanted to know things," Enjolras says, sucking in a deep breath to try again. "They asked me questions. My family's address. Security codes. Guards--how many and when."

Grantaire exhales sharply. Enjolras doesn't know how bad this is. They're planning to attack on his house, use him to find a way in. Maybe they're planning to kill Antoine, maybe they're just sticking to the typical goods. Whatever they're planning, it means that their plan to ransom Enjolras has failed. Antoine didn't bite.

"Wouldn't tell them anything," Enjolras continues. "They said a few more days, a few more sessions, then I'd talk."

"Okay, listen," Grantaire starts, keeping his voice low. He hopes Enjolras won't read the urgency. "We're getting out of here."

"How?" Enjolras croaks out. "They're armed."

"So are we," Grantaire tells him. He babbles, frantic, barely aware of the words he's saying. "I've got a plan. Or, I will have a plan. I've been in bad situations before. You have to trust me. This one time, in Cannes--"

Enjolras interrupts him. "Cannes?" Grantaire freezes. Enjolras pushes himself up onto his elbows, swiveling around to face Grantaire and moving backwards. He's wincing.

"Be careful, you're hurt," Grantaire warns.

"When were you in Cannes?" Enjolras asks, carefully saying each word.

Maybe it's because Enjolras looks close to dying, maybe it's because he was close to dying. Maybe it's because Grantaire has figured out that the Scavengers will kill them, if not today, then tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then the next day, or the day after that. Maybe it's because Grantaire's hungry, and tired, and sick of pretending.

Grantaire tells him the truth. "I'm not who you think I am," he states, plainly. Enjolras gets very still. His eyes bore into Grantaire. "What I told you, about growing up in Marseille? That wasn't true." He pauses. "You don't need to know who I am. You don't need to know where I really come from. All of this, it was a lie. Even this,"--he touches the three-pronged scared on his neck-- "this was a lie, too."

Enjolras still doesn't say anything. He moved even farther away from Grantaire, using the wall behind him to pull himself up into a seated position. He keeps his knees bent, hands and feet flat on the floor.

"I know you don't have any reason to trust me right now," Grantaire says, "But I'm asking you to trust me anyway. If we stay here, we will be killed. I can get us out, but you'll need to help."

After a few beats of silence, Enjolras spits out, "You." There is a venom in his words.

"What?"

Again, " _You._ You did this to me."

Grantaire's heart beats painfully hard against his chest. The ache behind his breastbone is back. For a second, Grantaire thinks--almost hopes--that he's having some kind of an attack, a hallucination, maybe. "What are you talking about?"

"Your people," Enjolras snaps, and then Grantaire understands. He gets this sick taste in his mouth and Grantaire knows that he's perfectly lucid. Grantaire knows exactly what he means, and what he thinks. "Your people did this to me."

"No," Grantaire says, instantly. " _No_. We had nothing to do with this--"

"You're an Invalid," Enjolras says, and Grantaire winces at the word. "That's what you're telling me. You're infected." Enjolras's fingers are trembling slightly against the ground, and Grantaire can't blame him. Enjolras is furious. Probably scared, too. "You're sick."

"Those aren't my people out there," Grantaire explains. "Those people aren't--they're not Invalids. They're different."

"You're lying," Enjolras states.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Grantaire says, standing up. He hopes Enjolras won't notice that his hands are shaking. "You don't know anything about us, and you don't know anything about me."

"Tell me," Enjolras prompts, his voice cold. "When did you catch it?"

Grantaire laughs, humorless. "It doesn't matter," he says. "None of it matters anymore."

"How did you catch it?" he persists. "Who was it?"

Grantaire stays silent.

*

"Grantaire." His names pulls him out of his sleep. Even in the dark, Grantaire can see that Enjolras is staring at him. His voice is still cold, though it may have lost some of its edge. "Is that even your real name?"

"That's my name," Grantaire confirms, running a hand over his face. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, hammering against his ribcage.

"You were calling for Anne," Enjolras states, tonelessly. "It was her, wasn't it? She was the one who got you sick?"

"Why does it matter, Enjolras?" Grantaire asks. He's so, so tired of this.

"What happened to her?" Enjolras questions. He's persistent, fixed on gaining an answer. Grantaire settles back down on his cot, staring up at the ceiling.

"She died," Grantaire tells him, shortly, because that's what Enjolras wants to hear.

"How?" Enjolras asks. "Because of the _deliria_?"

"You," Grantaire answers plainly. His voice is flat. Enjolras flinches. "Your people." It's the truth.

Enjolras sucks in a breath. His voice turns softer, though it's nowhere near kind. "You said you never had nightmares."

Grantaire turns, looking at the wall instead of Enjolras. "I'm an Invalid," he states. "We lie."

In the morning, Grantaire has a plan. Enjolras is sitting in the corner, watching Grantaire the way he did when they were first taken. He's wary, cautious. The strip of cloth is still around his head, but he looks better, now. Bruises bloom across his face, and Grantaire tells himself that it's good, that it's healing.

Grantaire strips away the nylon from the umbrella, cutting it into four long strips. Tying the strips into a makeshift cord, he tests the strength, pulling on either end. It won't hold for long, but it'll do. All Grantaire needs is a few minutes.

"What are you doing?" Enjolras asks. Grantaire can tell he's trying not to seem too curious. Grantaire doesn't answer him, not caring what he does, whether or not he'll be coming with Grantaire or staying here to rot.

Grantaire uses the knife to slide the metal flap door open. It clatters to the ground, and Grantaire's heart starts to speed up. It'll draw someone closer. He pulls the DFF handguide onto his lap, tearing out a page.

"You'll never fit through," Enjolras tells him. "It's too small. Whatever you're planning, it won't work." Grantaire huffs, agitated by Enjolras.

"Shut up," he snaps. "Can you do that? Just stay quiet, don’t speak." He unscrews Fantine's mascara, scrawling a note on the blank side of the page. He can feel Enjolras's eyes on him. The note reads: The man is violent, worried he might kill me. Ready to talk if you let me out now.

Grantaire slips the note through the flap door, making sure it's facing up. He repacks his backpack, gripping his knife as he stands by the door. Enjolras stays seated in the corner with watchful, alert blue eyes.

A Scavenger comes soon enough. They pick up the note, muttering, "What the hell?" The voice is masculine. Grantaire hears keys jingling and a clicking sound--the Scavenger sliding the safety off his gun.

The door swings fully open. It's the same one that came to get Enjolras--not Thenardier, but the one with the slicked-back, greasy hair.

He steps inside the cell, saying, "All right, I'm all ears." Grantaire pushes the door, slamming it toward the Scavenger. He hears a grunt of surprise, a curse, and then a groan of pain.

"Shit,” Enjolras is saying.

Grantaire moves from behind the door, landing on the Scavenger's back. He drives a knee into his back and presses the knife against his throat. "Don't move," Grantaire orders, his voice low. "Don't scream. Don't even think about screaming. Just stay where you are, and you won't get hurt."

Enjolras watches the scene, wide-eyed and silent. Grantaire takes one end of the makeshift rope, putting it in his teeth as he pins the Scavenger to the ground. Then, Enjolras moves, coming forward.

"What are you doing?" Grantaire asks him, through the nylon and his gritted teeth, his voice a snarl. If Enjolras interferes, if he messes anything up, they'll be dead. He's already wasting time.

"Helping you," Enjolras states, quite calmly. "Give me the rope." For a second, Grantaire doesn't move. "Give me the rope, I'm helping you," he repeats, almost annoyed. Grantaire passes the cord to him wordlessly, and he kneels down behind Grantaire, binding the man's hands and feet together. "Give me the knife."

"For what?" Grantaire snaps, tightening his grip on the handle.

"Just give it to me," Enjolras says, exasperated. Grantaire passes it back to him. Enjolras cuts off the excess nylon cord--it takes him a minute--and he passes the strip of nylon and the knife back to Grantaire. "You should gag him," Enjolras suggests. "So he won't be able to call for help." He's remarkably calm. Grantaire stuffs the cord into his mouth, turning it into a makeshift gag.

Grantaire gets to his feet, picking up his backpack. He shoots a look at Enjolras. "Are you coming?" he asks him, arching an eyebrow. Grantaire hopes his voice isn't as harsh as it was earlier. Enjolras has his mouth set in a firm line, but he nods. "Come on, then," Grantaire says, walking out of the cell. He closes the door carefully behind them.

There's muffled voices. Grantaire presses himself flat against the wall, and Enjolras does the same. Their arms are just touching.

"Let's talk about this," someone pleads. There's a bang, and Grantaire can feel Enjolras jump. He thinks of gunfire, and he holds his breath.

"No," says a voice. Snarling. It's Thenardier. "I'm tired of talking, Claquesous." There's a sigh, and then the man relents. "Fine. Fine. You get two minutes." The footsteps grow farther away, and then they're alone again.

At the end of the hallway, there's a door. Grantaire tries the handle, but it's locked. There's a small keypad fitted just above the door handle, and Grantaire mutters, "Shit." The door requires a code.

"What do we do?" Enjolras asks.

"We?" Grantaire shoots him a look. "Since when are we in this together?"

"We have to be," Enjolras states. "We'll need to help each other if we're going to escape." He puts his hand on Grantaire's shoulder, moving him out of the way.

"You won't be able to pick the lock. We need a code," Grantaire tells him. Enjolras runs his fingers over the keypad, and then the straight lines of the door.

"We have a keypad like this," Enjolras explains. "I can never remember the code. Dad changes it a lot, because of the workers coming in and out. We had to develop a system, a series of clues. A code within a code--little signs embedded in and around the gate so whenever the code is changed, I'll know it."

The clock above the door is stuck, big hand just above the nine, little hand on the three. "The clock," Grantaire says, jerking his chin upwards. "Nine and three. Most keypads take four numbers, right?"

Enjolras punches in 9393, then 3939. Nothing works. Not 3399, or 9933. Muffled voices are heard from down the hall, and Grantaire freezes.

"Shit," he breathes, running his hands through his hair.

Enjolras is shifting his weight on his feet, and Grantaire knows he's scared. "Nine fifteen," he blurts, turning back to the keypad. "Not nine and three, it's oh-nine-one-five." He punches the numbers in, and there's a quiet buzz, a click, and the door swings open.

They're in another room. This one's large, with a high ceiling. Lining the walls are shelves, stocked with survival goods. Jugs of water, clean clothes, food. Weapons. Enjolras has an hand on Grantaire, tugging him towards the door.

"No," Grantaire says, wrenching his arm away from him. "There's supplies here, we need to stock up." There's shouting from the hallway. Someone must have sounded an alarm. "We have to hide." Grantaire pulls Enjolras towards the wardrobe, stepping inside. There's barely any room; Enjolras's back is pressed against Grantaire's chest. He can feel Enjolras breathe.

The door gives another buzz and a click, slamming against the wall. Enjolras flinches. Grantaire finds his shoulder in the dark, giving a quick squeeze of reassurance.

"Goddammit!" Thenardier snaps. "How the hell did this happen? How did they--"

"They couldn't have gone far, they don't have the code."

"Well, then, where the hell are they? Two goddamn kids, for fuck's sake," says Thenardier. "They could be hiding in the rooms. Get Claquesous on it."

More footsteps. "Babet, I swear to fucking--" Thenardier starts.

"One of them tied up Brujon. They have a knife," says someone, probably Babet. "They're in the tunnels by now," he says. "Have to be. Brujon must have given up the code."

"Does he say he did?"

"Montparnasse--if he did, he wouldn't say so," Babet snaps.

"Stop," Thenardier interrupts. "Clear the tunnels. Claquesous will take east, I'll take west with Brujon. Babet will cover north, Montparnasse has south." Thenardier is saying, "Get the little shits back here in the next hour. I'm not losing payday over this."

There's the sound of shuffling, of guns being loaded and straps being snapped into place. Fear slams into Grantaire like a truck. There's no way he can make it out of here alive, not up against, what, five Scavengers? On the other side of that one-inch plywood door, there are people who are willing to kill them.

"We'll meet back here in an hour," says Thenardier. "Find the kids and do whatever you have to do to get them back. A body is better than nothing." A chill runs down Grantaire's spine.

Footsteps move farther away, to the other end of the room. The door opposite to the one they came through must lead to the tunnels. The door opens, then closes, and then it's quiet.

Grantaire makes to leave, but Enjolras whispers, "Wait for a few seconds, just to be sure." Grantaire nods, even though he can't see it.

Heat radiates off Enjolras's skin. Their bodies touch when they both inhale. Finally, Grantaire can't take it anymore. He says, "It's fine, let's go," and then he pushes out of the wardrobe, still moving cautiously.

Enjolras moves to one of the shelves, looking through the clothing. He tosses Grantaire a shirt, saying, "It looks like it should fit."

Grantaire puts it on, along with a pair of jeans. Enjolras steps out from behind the doors of the wardrobe, where he went to change. He has on a clean, red shirt, like the one he wore at the DFF meeting, and a clean pair of jeans.

They fill Grantaire's backpack with granola bars and water, two flashlights, some packages of nuts, and jerky. He throws in medical supplies, like ointment and bandages and antibacterial wipes. Enjolras watches wordlessly, and when Grantaire meets his eyes, Enjolras's expression is unreadable.

Miraculously, Grantaire finds a small wooden box full of ID cards. He shifts through them, taking ones that look like him, Enjolras, and the others back in the Wilds. He rubberbands them and puts them in his bag. Then, just in case, he grabs a DFF badge, too.

Grantaire goes to the shelf full of weapons. He passes Enjolras a handgun, then puts a box of bullets in his backpack.

"I've never shot one before," Enjolras tells him, cautiously holding it. "Have you?"

"A few times," Grantaire answers. Enjolras hands it back, biting his lower lip. Grantaire puts it in the front pocket of his backpack, even though he doesn't like the idea of being weighed down.

He selects a switchblade from their place on the shelf, and Enjolras does, too.

"Ready to go?" Enjolras asks him, and that's when it hits him. This is all wrong. This is too organized. There are too many rooms, too  many weapons, too much order.

"They must have had help," Grantaire blurts. "The Scavengers could have never done this on their own, there's no way."

"Who?" Enjolras asks impatiently. He looks anxiously at the door.

"Scavengers. The uncureds."

"Invalids," Enjolras says flatly. "Like you."

"No," Grantaire corrects him. "Not like me, not like Invalids. They're different." He closes his eyes, leaning back his head. "Oh, my god."

"Grantaire, we have to go," Enjolras says, persistent. He grabs Grantaire's arm, but he's only shrugged off.

"The DFF," Grantaire says, "They helped. The guy we tied up--Brujon--he had a tattoo of an eagle and a syringe. That's the DFF crest."

Enjolras stiffens, backing away from Grantaire. "It's a coincidence."

"No," Grantaire tells him, shaking his head. "They're working together. They have to be, there's no other way--"

"No." Enjolras's voice is low, calm, and steady. "You're wrong."

"Enjolras--"

He cuts Grantaire off. "You're wrong, understand? It's impossible. The DFF wouldn't do this. My father wouldn't do this."

“Wouldn’t he?” Grantaire asks, his voice quiet. He forces himself to look away. It's hard, because there's something different in Enjolras's eyes. Something like anger.

That's how they're standing when two Scavengers burst into the room. Thenardier and Brujon. For a second, time stops. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. And then, all at once, the room erupts.

Grantaire dives for Thenardier, knocking the gun from his hand and kneeing him in the stomach. Thenardier grunts, but continues, reaching for the knife he has. Grantaire shoves at him, frantically forming a plan.

He's too slow, and as Thenardier dives for him, he doesn't move. They topple to the floor in a crash, sending items raining from one of the shelves. Thenardier mutters a curse.

Thenardier has his knife, pressing it down into the skin on Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire can feel a trickle of blood.

On the other side of the room, Enjolras and Brujon are throwing punches. Enjolras uses his size to his advantage, ducking quickly out of the way before each blow. He's fast, and Brujon is slow, bulky. Brujon knocks over a box full of flashlights, and that's enough of a distraction.

Thenardier looks over his shoulder, just once, and Grantaire brings his fist up and between the man's ribs.

He staggers back, breathless, as Grantaire gets to his feet. He takes the knife from him, and in one quick movement, cuts the man’s throat. His hands are shaking, and while he looks down at Thenardier bleeding out, Brujon barrels into him, knocking him to the floor.

Grantaire has had the wind knocked out of him before, and this is nothing like that. He can’t breathe, he can’t do anything except for sit and let his head roll to the side, where Enjolras is laying, motionless on the ground.

In his chest, right behind is ribcage, his heart clenches painfully. And then, Brujon is on top of him, trying to suffocate Grantaire.

He’s going to die, and he’s almost thankful. Maybe he let Fantine and the others down, but he put up such a fight, and now he can let go. He can let the Scavengers win.

Grantaire doesn’t struggle, and he lets his eyes flutter shut. The image he pictures is simply Enjolras, with his head thrown back in a laugh, exposing the long line of his neck. Grantaire imagines that his smile is bright.

There’s a grunt from Brujon, but Grantaire doesn’t open his eyes. The last thing he wants to see before he dies is an angry man’s face. Weight collapses on top of him, and that’s when he starts to question what’s happening.

“Grantaire?” His eyes flutter open at his name spoken by the most concerned, frantic voice he’s ever heard, and that’s counting the time Cosette got sick and Marius spent the entire week with her in the sickroom.

He sees Enjolras, standing over him, eyes alight with panic. “Oh, thank God,” Enjolras breathes, shoulders sagging with relief.

“I must be dead, if you’re that concerned for my well being,” Grantaire says, sitting up with a wince. Enjolras grimaces, but he holds out his hand for Grantaire to grasp, anyway. He pulls Grantaire up, and that’s when he sees the knife sticking out of Brujon’s back.

“It was an accident,” is the first thing that Enjolras says. “I saw him on top of you and I grabbed a knife and, I don’t know, I just--”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire interrupts. He puts a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder. “You saved my life.” As Enjolras nods, he blinks. “Thank you.” Again, Enjolras nods, opening his mouth to say something, but then he shuts it. Grantaire throws a glance over his shoulder, at the door they came through. “You up for moving?” Another nod, and then they’re stumbling out the door, into the dark, musty tunnels.

They don’t know how long they walk, but they’re going slowly, painstakingly so. It’s too much of a risk to run, with the sound of their footsteps echoing down the tunnel.

Grantaire is stumbling. It must be days since he’s eaten anything substantial. Grantaire’s neck, where Thenardier broke the skin with his knife, throbs painfully. Enjolras reaches out, placing a steady hand on Grantaire’s back, keeping him upright.

Minutes or hours later, Grantaire sees a bit of light, and he can hear Enjolras make a surprised sound next to him. They rush towards the light, seeing that it’s coming from a grate on the top of the tunnel.

Grantaire looks up, squinting, and the he risks the flashlight, taking it out and turning it on to examine the bolts. He shakes his head, disappointed. “Bolted from the outside,” he explains, though he still makes himself taller to push on the grate.

Enjolras sinks to his knees, his head in his hands. He looks defeated.

“You okay?” Grantaire asks, kneeling next to him. Enjolras nods, lifting his head from where it rests on his legs.

“Fine,” he replies, though it’s probably a lie. “Just tired.” That part is true. Enjolras slumps against the ground, putting his arm under his head to use as a pillow. The ground is damp, the cold seeping into his bones.

“Sleep, then,” Grantaire tells him. “I’ll keep watch.” Enjolras nods, staring up at the sky through the grate. He can see the stars, though his eyelids are getting heavier. A shudder runs through his body, from the cold breeze that they get through the opening. “Cold?”

“Freezing,” Enjolras corrects, dryly. There’s a pause, and then Grantaire is curving around him, his body a furnace. “What are you doing?”

“I’m cold, too,” Grantaire answers.

“What about the _deliria_?” he asks, and Grantaire doesn’t have an answer, so he stays silent, his heart beating through Enjolras’s back. A minute or two later, Enjolras whispers, “Grantaire?”

“Yeah?” His eyes have fluttered shut, but the tone of Enjolras’s voice makes them open again.

“Do you want to know how my mom died?” It’s said in a rush, and all Grantaire can do is nod. “She was sick,” he starts, and then continues, “Like you. Her cure didn’t work, but she kept it hidden. She was…” he trails off, and then clears his throat. “She didn’t get the deliria from my father. Before she died, she’d tell me stories, when my dad was gone. I don’t remember any of them, but I remember how different she looked when she was telling them. Like she was alive.”

Enjolras pauses, shifting beside Grantaire. “Anyway, my father found out, eventually. He came home early, one day, saw her telling me a story. Then, he took her into the basement, and locked her there. We had dinner, and we could hear her crying through the walls. Then, the crying stopped.

“Afterward, they told me it was the deliria that killed her. My father couldn’t have known. That’s the thing about the cure, isn’t it? It’ll keep everything in order. Without it, it’s chaos. Sickness. Death.”

Grantaire finds his voice. “Do you miss her?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer right away. He thinks about it, turning the words around in his mind. Eventually, he says, “I think so. I did for a long time. My dad--he told me that it wouldn’t be like this after the cure. That I wouldn’t think about her that way, anymore.”

“That’s even worse,” Grantaire finds himself saying. “Once you’ve had the cure. That’s when they’re really gone.”

Enjolras is silent for three long beats, feeling Grantaire’s breath against the back of his neck. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “I don’t know what’s supposed to happen next.”

“You’re not supposed to,” he answers, and it’s true. The DFF carefully lays out their lives, with the matches and the living arrangements and the jobs, and everyone knows what’s going to happen. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.

More silence. Finally, Enjolras says, “I’m scared.” His voice is a whisper and a sob and Grantaire almost loses the confession in the wind.

“I know,” Grantaire tells him. Enjolras’s hair tickles his nose when he breathes. “Me, too.” His eyes are shut again, but he’s painfully aware of Enjolras curved against him.

“I’m less scared with you,” Enjolras says, but Grantaire is already half-asleep, and there’s no telling as to whether or not he hears him.

*

When Grantaire wakes up, there’s pain. It’s worse than when he was first tossed into the cell with Enjolras.

He blinks slowly, and his eyes focus on Enjolras. He’s standing under the grates, where rainwater is falling down onto him, clad in only faded cotton shorts. Grantaire finds that he can’t look away.

In the gray light, he seems to glow. He’s beautiful.

Grantaire sits up, clearing his throat so he makes his presence known. Enjolras turns around, eyes widening slightly. He gets his shirt over his head, struggling slightly.

“I didn’t know you were awake,” he says, once the shirt is on. His face is clean, no traces of blood at all. The bruises are purple, and the cuts are scabbing over, which is a good sign.

“Just woke up,” Grantaire says, rubbing his eyes. His voice is rough, thick with sleep. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I must have dropped off around five. The sun was rising.” He stands, walking over to where the water is draining from the grates.

“Are we leaving soon?” Enjolras asks, wrestling on his jeans.

“In a bit,” Grantaire answers. “I’ll clean up, like you did. Under the gates,” he adds, as if Enjolras didn’t know that already.

Enjolras stands, not looking like he’s going to move. Grantaire starts to take off his shirt, and that’s when Enjolras turns, averting his eyes. He sits down, his back to Grantaire.

Grantaire’s makeshift shower is short, with Enjolras sitting a few feet away from him. He lets his mind wander, though, to Enjolras and how he looked earlier, and that’s when he steps out of the icy water, tugging on his dark jeans. They hang loosely off of his hipbones.

He looks up, and sees Enjolras’s eyes trained on him, from where he’s glancing behind his shoulder. His gaze travels from the broadness of Grantaire’s shoulders to the small curve of his stomach, and back up to the dark, wet ringlets of his hair.

When Grantaire clears his throat, feeling the urge to turn away, Enjolras explains, simply, “I’ve never been able to look before.” The light falls on his face and brings out the rare softness in his eyes.

“Well, I hope I meet your expectations,” Grantaire says, arching an eyebrow. He tugs on his shirt, over his head. Something about Enjolras’s expression makes him add, “I’m not much to look at.”

Enjolras, shaking his head, stands and walks over to him. “We should bandage that,” he says, nodding to the cut long Grantaire’s neck. The throb has faded to a dull pulse every now and then.

Moving over to the backpack, Enjolras pulls out the supplies they stole. A bandage, a bottle of peroxide, some antibacterial ointment, and cotton balls.

“I can do it,” Grantaire states in a hoarse voice. Enjolras shakes his head, and several droplets of water fall off of his curls. Grantaire can tell that he smells like rain.

“I know,” Enjolras retorts. “Let me do it anyway.” Grantaire relents, letting Enjolras dip the cotton balls in peroxide and dab the cut carefully. It’s painful, and when Grantaire jerks his head back, the corner of Enjolras’s mouth turns up into something resembling a smile. “Don’t be a baby,” he tells him, echoing Grantaire’s words. Another dab, and Grantaire grits his teeth against the pain. Enjolras covers it in ointment and presses the bandage over his, fingers skating against Grantaire’s skin. “There. Now, it won’t get infected and we can make it out of here alive. You okay to move on?”

Grantaire nods, but he’s still thinking about what Enjolras said before that. When they do get out of here, what’s supposed to happen? Enjolras will no doubt go back to his old life--to his father, to the DFF. Maybe he’ll have Grantaire arrested.

Feeling a surge of nausea, Grantaire closes his eyes and sways a little on his feet.

Enjolras reaches out, squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire starts a little at the contact, eyes focusing on the blond boy in front of him.

“Are you sure you’re okay to move? We can stay and rest a while,” Enjolras explains. His voice is gentle; he’s never been this kind towards Grantaire, especially not while the sun was up.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire starts, shakily. “We’re on different sides.” He wishes he could explains this better, but that’s as far as he can get. “You understand that, don’t you?”

His eyes harden, turning from soft blue to cold, steel. When he speaks, his voice is still soft. “I don’t know what side I’m on anymore.” He steps towards Grantaire, and that’s when the shout comes. Enjolras stiffens, turning his head towards the sound. When they lock eyes, there’s no communication. They know that they need to run.

For hours, it seems like, they travel down the tunnel. The footsteps behind them never cease, but they do grow quieter.

When they see light again, Enjolras almost cries out. Grantaire rushes forward, and looks up to see another grate. There are no sounds coming from the outside world, none at all. He figures they must be in the Wilds.

“Locked?” Enjolras asks. His voice is hoarse, because he hasn’t said a word in the past few hours. Grantaire shrugs, reaching up to rest on a part of the grate.

It’s a little rusty around the edges, and it doesn’t look like it’ll hold. Grantaire gives a tug, and it doesn’t budge. Another, and he can hear it groan. Frustrated. he lets go to wipe his hands on his pants, and puts his hands back on the rungs. This time, though, he lifts, and the grate detaches.

A grin spreads across his face. They made it out, finally. Grantaire slides the grate over the ground above, and tries to lift himself out. He’s gotten weaker, but he’s pulled himself up into the real world.

Before he looks around, he offers a hand down to Enjolras, who grabs it, pulling himself up, too. Grantaire ignores the way his hand feels in his own.

Outside, the light is almost blinding. Grantaire has to squint as he tries to make sense of the surroundings.  

They’re in the middle of the meadow, surrounded by a forest, which seems to put Enjolras on edge, but Grantaire is sure he’s seen this place before. Maybe when they were heading into the city, or passing it to get to Lille, seeing what the border of Belgium is like.

Everything is in full bloom. The trees are a beautiful, dark green. Wildflowers are growing on either side of the grate they came through. Enjolras looks stunning against the pale blue sky, the same color as his eyes. The sunlight streaks his hair white and gold.

“Just like that picture, huh?” Grantaire says, getting to his feet. Enjolras stays quiet, doesn’t give an answer.

There’s train tracks on one side of the meadow, though they’re torn up, mangled iron and wood. It must be a product of the bombs.

“I know where we are,” Grantaire tells Enjolras, who meets his eyes. “There’s a homestead somewhere behind the train tracks. It won’t take long if we hurry.” Enjolras follows Grantaire across the train tracks, into the high grass beyond it.

Soon enough, the landscape becomes familiar. They’re just outside of Paris; a sign tells them they’re in what once was a small city called Linas. Grantaire remembers Cosette joined their group not far from here.

If they follow the dirt road, they’ll come to a turn, and the homestead should be right there. Convenient, Grantaire thinks, that they ended up so close to the homestead, that the tunnels led them here.

“It’s right up here,” Grantaire says, breaking the silence that’s settled between them. The sun is hot on their backs, and it’s a relief. They made it out of there.

Fantine has said this homestead was one of the very first built, after all the bombs were dropped. The first small group of resisters made it out of whatever they could find: wood, sheets of metal, slabs of concrete. It doesn’t look like it should be standing, but it is.

Enjolras catches up with Grantaire, standing beside him with a look of awe on his face.

“It’s not possible,” he murmurs, reaching out his hand to brush along the rough concrete wall. “This isn’t at all what I imagined.”

“We can build something out of almost anything,” Grantaire says, and then shrugs. Feuilly almost said the same thing to him when he first arrived. “After the bombs were dropped, there wasn’t much left, but we make do.”

Enjolras turns to Grantaire, meeting his eyes. “I used to think all of this was a fairytale, two years ago. The Wilds, the Invalids,” he says, and Grantaire is suddenly all too aware of how close Enjolras is. He can see the freckles that are stretched across his nose, the white blond of his eyelashes, the healing cut on his lip. “You. I never would have believed any of it.”

Grantaire swallows, hard, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. “I’m real,” he replies. Enjolras looks away, taking a step back.

“I don’t know if I can go back,” he says, but it’s mostly to himself.

“What do you mean?” Grantaire finds himself asking. Enjolras swallows, closes his eyes, and lets his head fall back. For a moment, he’s quiet, and then he looks at Grantaire.

“I think I’m--” he starts, but there’s a loud bang. Grantaire spins around, wrestling the handgun out of his backpack. He points it towards the noise. There’s a flicker of movement to his left, and he turns that way, holding the gun carefully.

A cat jumps out from behind a cinder block, running towards the high grass that Grantaire and Enjolras came from. Enjolras lets out the breath he was holding, and Grantaire visibly relaxes.

Enjolras reaches out, settling a hand on Grantaire’s arm. Grantaire jerks away, instinctively, like he’s been burnt. He drops his eyes, turning to open the door. “Come on,” he says. The door handle doesn’t budge.

“I was about to say something,” Enjolras tells him, quietly. Grantaire can tell Enjolras is searching his face, trying to will his eyes to meet his own, but Grantaire has got the door open, and he’s walking inside.

“You can tell me later,” is all that Grantaire says. Inside the homestead, there are four rooms. One for storage, one for sleeping, one for bathing, and a kitchen. It’s dark, and Grantaire has to fumble around for a few moments before finding a lantern.

He lights a fire while Enjolras goes into the storage room. Grantaire moves into the room for bathing, with the big, metal tubs sitting over a grate. He fills a tub with water, and then waits for it to get hot from the fire.

Once it’s done, he strips out of his clothing and settles into the tub, letting out a sigh. Dirt is on every inch of his skin, and it takes half a bar of soap for him to feel finally clean.

Redressing, Grantaire notices that his bruises are healing. His ribs stick out, but he has a softness to his stomach that isn’t on anyone else. Grantaire wonders if Enjolras thought he was ugly. He pushes the thought away.

Enjolras is in the storage room, flipping through one of the books. He looks concentrated, like he’s trying to commit it to memory.

“Your turn,” Grantaire says, making his presence known. Enjolras jerks, slamming the books shut. When he meets Grantaire’s eyes, he looks guilty. “You can read whatever you want here.”

Enjolras is silent for a long time. He picks the book back up, turning it to the first page. “I remember this book,” he says, finally.

Grantaire can see the title, it’s Charles Dickens’s  _Great Expectations_. “I never read it. Combeferre always said it was one of his favorites--” Grantaire sucks in a quick breath. He shouldn’t have said Combeferre’s name, he shouldn’t have let Enjolras in, shouldn’t have given him his trust--

If Enjolras picks up on it, though, he doesn’t let it show.

“When my mother died, it was with her things. I don’t know what I was looking for.” He pauses, flipping to the page he left off on. “I kept it.” Surprisingly, Enjolras’s mouth twists into a smile. “I cut a slit in my mattress and hid it there. My father never found it.”

“Is it good?” Grantaire questions.

“It’s full of illegal things,” Enjolras says, slowly. For a moment, he breaks away from Grantaire’s gaze, and there’s a pause. When he looks back to Grantaire, his eyes are full of light. He smiles, and it makes the pain behind Grantaire’s breastbone worsen. “But yes, it’s good.”

Grantaire shifts weight on his feet, and says, “I filled a bath for you, it should be hot by now. You can take clean clothes.” Enjolras nods, grabbing a new shirt and pants from the shelves.

He hesitates before he leaves the storage room, stopping next to where Grantaire is standing. “It’s not so bad here,” he admits, his voice low.

“We do what we can,” Grantaire replies, but his voice is strained. He’s terrified of the thought of what happens after this. Will Enjolras go back to his father, reading forbidden books by flashlight in the middle of the night, or will he stay in the Wilds? If he goes back, he’ll be cured, and then Grantaire will be alone.

While Enjolras bathes, Grantaire lights a few candles. Humming is coming from the bathing room, and Grantaire can’t fight the grin taking over his face. He goes to to front door and cracks it, seeing that the sun is already setting. There’s a flicker of movement to his left, but Grantaire figures it must be the cat.

Letting the door shut, Grantaire turns, seeing Enjolras. His hair is wet, dark blond ringlets stopping at his jaw. In the dim light, his eyes look dark.

“You look almost human,” Grantaire says to fill the silence. Enjolras blushes and drops his eyes to the floor, which is--Grantaire doesn’t know what to make of it. He takes the package of crackers off of the counter and offers it to Enjolras, who must be starving.

They eat in comfortable silence, knees brushing where they sit on the floor. The candlelight that’s flickering makes Enjolras seem like he’s glowing.

When they’re finished, Enjolras follows Grantaire into the bedroom. Grantaire chooses the one closest to the door, and is surprised to find Enjolras sitting down on the one next to it. He looks up at Grantaire, and the blatant open happiness on his face is so surprising that Grantaire almost drops the candle, and the flame goes out.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks. It’s too dark to see, but Grantaire moves towards the sound of his voice. “Can you find your way?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies. He feels a hand brush across his back and he manages not to jump.

“Easy,” comes Enjolras’s voice. Grantaire sits at the edge of his mattress, and he knows Enjolras isn't laying down because he doesn't hear the springs creak. After a few beats of silence, Enjolras says, “I never got to thank you. You saved my life.”

“If it weren't for you, I would’ve been stabbed by a Scavenger,” Grantaire responds.

Enjolras clears his throat before saying, “I guess we saved each other, then.” Grantaire can hear the smile in his voice. Even though they’re both exhausted, they stay sitting up. There’s the sound of their breathing filling the small room, and that’s the only noise for a long time. Just as Grantaire is thinking about laying down, Enjolras whispers, “Do you ever think about the girl who infected you?”

“Not so much anymore,” Grantaire replies, and doesn’t elaborate on why. “Do you ever think of your mother?”

“All the time,” Enjolras admits, quietly. “They told me it would better better after I was cured.” He pauses, “I knew it wouldn't work. The cure. I knew it’d kill me,” he says. “I think I wanted it to.”

Grantaire inhales, audibly, and he can hear the springs creak and Enjolras gets up, walks over to Grantaire.

“What does it feel like?” Enjolras asks him. Grantaire can’t see him, but he knows that they’re close, he can feel Enjolras’s presence in front of him. “The _deliria_. What is it like to be infected?”

“I can’t describe it,” is all that Grantaire says.

Enjolras moves forward, closer, so impossibly close. He smells like soap, like fire. Grantaire takes a deep breath, lets his eyes flutter shut. “I want to know.” Enjolras’s voice is barely a whisper. “I want to know with you.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire breathes, eyes opening only to see darkness.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and instead of answering, Grantaire surges forward, fitting their mouths together. Enjolras is clumsy, doesn’t know what to do, but Grantaire guides him. They’re kissing, and it’s the best thing Grantaire has done in a long, long time.

Enjolras draws away, pulling in a breath. “Grantaire,” he says, hoarsely. “What’s going to happen tomorrow?” There’s almost no space between them; Grantaire can feel the question on his own lips.

“I don’t know,” he says, reaches out his hand to clasp them around Enjolras’s. He pulls him down and into the narrow bed, where they settle against each other, breathing the same air.

They’re facing each other, and Enjolras’s mouth is pressed to Grantaire’s neck, moving slightly in a way that could be a kiss. They fall asleep like that, tangled together, with their hands clasped.

Regrettably, morning comes all too soon. Grantaire wakes to see Enjolras curled against his chest, sleeping peacefully. To his right, there’s a flicker of movement, and Grantaire wonders how the cat must’ve got in.

And that’s when it hits him. He shut the door last night, made sure it was locked, and terror climbs up his throat.

“Enjolras--” he croaks, sitting up, and then everything explodes.

They’re coming in, barging through the door, yelling, dressed in gas masks and matching gray uniforms. Enjolras is awake now, calling to Grantaire. They’re pulling him off the bed by his hair, and he’s screaming out in pain.

While he’s distracted, a regulator cuffs Grantaire, pulls him off the bed by the collar. He’s marched out of the homestead where rows and rows of policemen are waiting for them. There’s a van, down at the end of the line of cars, and he’s being shoved towards it.

Behind his shoulder, he sees Enjolras being manhandled into a car. He’s still shouting Grantaire’s name.

Inside the van, Grantaire is numb. The world moves past him in a blur and he doesn’t care.

After a while, the van pulls to a stop. The doors swing open, and Granatire slides cautiously out of the back. The driver leads him inside a building, where Fantine is waiting for him.

“What’s happening?” is the first thing he says. “Where’s Combeferre?”

“He’s sleeping,” she says. There’s a weariness in her eyes, and her mouth is pressed into a thin line. “It’s been a long day for all of us.”

“It’s been a long week,” he responds. Again, “What’s happening? Where are they taking Enjolras? We were kidnapped, the Scavengers took us, Fantine, what’s going to happen to him now--”

“I know what happened in the tunnels,” she interrupts. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk on the road. We’re heading south, Valjean is waiting for us in Nimes. There’s people there who can help us.”

“We can’t leave,” Grantaire states. “Not now. Listen, I think the DFF is working with the Scavengers.”

“They are,” Fantine tells him. Grantaire doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s not that. “What happened at the rally was staged. It was a set up, the DFF paid the Thenardier’s group to act like animals, to show what happens without the cure, how important it is for everyone to great treated for deliria immediately. Otherwise the world goes to hell. The Scavengers are proof of that.”

“People _died_ ,” Grantaire spits. “I saw--There were--”

“Two hundred,” Fantine informs him, her voice going quiet. “Twenty-four officers, the rest citizens. They didn’t bother seeing how many of the Scavengers were killed.” She pauses. “Sometimes it is necessary to sacrifice individuals if it benefits the health of the whole.” Fantine sounds like she’s reciting something straight out of a DFF pamphlet.

Grantaire doesn’t know what to say.

Fantine continues, her voice stern, “It wasn’t a mistake that you and Enjolras were kidnapped. The resistance planned it. Thenardier was told he’d get a ransom for you two. You were never in any danger, not really.”

“We almost died,” Grantaire argues. “We were starved, we barely got any food. Enjolras was beaten half to death.”

“The important thing is that you escaped,” Fantine tells him. “We thought you would’ve made it out days ago, actually.” There are a few beats of silence. “You’ve helped the resistance in more ways than any of us have.”

“I did nothing,” Grantaire snaps. He’s defensive, of course he is, but he’s only thinking about Enjolras. “What does Enjolras have to do with any of this?”

“He has everything to do with this, Grantaire,” Fantine says. “He’s the symbol of everything the DFF stands for. Head of the youth group, too. That’s six hundred thousand people alone, at least. If Enjolras is out of the DFF, cast out--or, even better, if he chooses out--it sends a powerful message to all the uncureds who’ve seen him as a leader.”

“So we let him get thrown in prison? Let him be killed?” Grantaire demands, anger seeping through his words.

“There’s nothing you can do,” she says simply. “You can’t be guilty about this. We’re on separate sides of a war.”

“You can’t tell me what to feel,” Grantaire states. “That makes you just as bad as them.” His eyes are hard as flint, solid as steel.

Fantine stays silent, her eyes narrowing. When she speaks, her voice is, surprisingly, soft. “You really did like him, then?”

Granatire gives a bitter laugh. “I love him,” he answers.

Fantine purses her lips and looks at him with pity clear in her eyes. “We’re leaving tomorrow to head south. Come on, there’s food in the dining hall. Dinner’s almost done.”

Grantaire, albeit reluctantly, follows after her.

*

The sun is rising, peaking over the skyscrapers scattered about Paris. It’s just after dawn, and the only person walking the streets is Grantaire. Enjolras is going to be cured today.

Quietly, he breaks into a house that doesn’t look secure. The family who inhabits it is fast asleep, peaceful and unaware. Grantaire steps inside one of the bedrooms, thanking whatever god there is that it’s empty and holds a wardrobe.

He finds pants that are a little too big and a shirt that doesn’t sit right across his broad shoulders, but other than that, he looks presentable. On his way out, he stops in the kitchen to slip a knife into the back pocket of his jeans. He has a feeling he’ll need it.

All he has to do, really, is follow the trail of reporters. Grantaire ends up outside a building, one of the main medical centers in Paris. Taking a deep breath, he pushes open the doors and prepares himself for the worst.

There is a woman sitting at the desk, she smiles up at him, asking, “How can I help you?” She is calm and pleasant, her voice soothing Grantaire like Fantine’s never could.

“I need to speak to Lamarque,” Grantaire blurts out. “He’s supposed to be in today. It’s urgent, I think my neighbors are infected.”

“What you’ll have to do is file an official report and--”

“No, you don’t understand,” he interrupts, impatient. He settles into his character. “My sister, she’s still uncured. Isn’t there some type of vaccine that can be given to her? I’m worried, she’s curious enough as it is. The DFF is right, everyone should get the cure immediately. Then there would be none of this going on.”

“I’m sorry, Lamarque is in today but he’s busy,” she tells him, frowning slightly. “You can come back another day? We’re free tomorrow at noon. Lamarque is booked for all of today, what with Antoine having Julien cured. It’s such a shame, he would have been a good DFF leader.”

“It’ll just take a second,” Grantaire argues. “He said for me to see him whenever I feel uneasy, and this is making that feeling ten times worse. I’d like to see him now, please.” His voice is hard, pushing her into doing what he wants.

She presses her lips into a thin line and relents. “Fine,” she responds. “I’ll need to see your ID.” Grantaire pulls one of the Scavenger’s badges out, handing it over to her. “I can’t read the number, I’m sorry. I’m going to have to run it through SVS. You can take a seat there,” she mutters, nodding towards the waiting area.

As soon as the door closes behind her, Grantaire is walking down the hallway, blindly searching for the room where the procedures take place. He takes out the knife from his back pocket, gripping it tightly as he makes his way down the hall.

Grantaire can barely make out voices, and it sounds like they’re coming from the left, down the stairwell. He presses himself against the wall, hoping that no one walks down to find him like this.

“Today, the eighth of April, will be the day that Julien Enjolras is cured from his sickness. Not even twenty-four hours ago, he was found lying in bed with a boy on unregulated ground. No more details have been shared, but we will keep you informed.”

Of course the press would be here, they’d be desperate to record it, to broadcast it, to show what happens to the sick.

Grantaire goes forward, not turning down the hallway where the news reporters are. He’s been in a building just like this one, back when he was living with his parents and following the rules that the DFF has set for them.

A door at the very end of the hallway is labeled To Observation Deck D. Slowly, Grantaire opens it, holding the knife towards the doorway.

The room is empty, save for three metal foldable chairs. On on wall of the room there is a  glass window, separating Observation Deck D from Procedure Room D. Grantaire walks over to it, and just as he guessed, below him is Enjolras.

His heart beats painfully in his chest as he looks around the room, trying to find something that would help, trying to form a plan.

There is a shout, and then the glass window cracks, then shatters. Grantaire just barely ducks, escaping the flying shards of glass. He rushes over to the window, seeing a woman with short, choppy blond hair, holding a gun, and then he puts two and two together.

Fantine is the one holding the gun, aiming it directly at Antoine. She’s wearing a lab coat and a paper mask over her face. There’s movement by the bed, and Grantaire sees Enjolras tugging at his binds.

On a whim, Grantaire steps onto the windowsill, not thinking twice before he drops down. He catches himself with his hands, and when he stands up, they come back with blood. Instead of moving to help Fantine, he’s at Enjolras’s side, trying to undo knots with shaking hands.

“Grantaire?” It’s Enjolras, and hearing his voice makes Grantaire want to cry. He’s alive, and they’re getting out of here. “You came,” he states.

“Of course,” Grantaire chokes out, disbelieving. Fantine is by them now, and there are several dead bodies on the ground. An alarm is shrieking, piercing their ears.

“We have to go, Grantaire, let’s get him and leave,” Fantine says, frantic, looking behind her shoulder. Then, they’re running, and in a blurry few seconds they’re out of the building, gasping in fresh air.

“This way,” Fantine says, shortly, and directs them to a van that’s waiting in an alley by the side of the building. Her cheeks have several small cuts on them--the glass must have skimmed her.

She pulls open the back doors of the van and Grantaire climbs in, sitting down on the dirty floor. Enjolras hesitates, though, and he looks to Grantaire for confirmation.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire tells him, and Enjolras is taking his place next to Grantaire on the floor. Fantine nods at them and shuts the door, walks to the front of the van to get into the passenger seat.

Enjolras looks out of place here, in the dim lighting of the van. He belongs under fluorescent lights, in the middle of a stage, on a screen.

In the darkness of the car, Grantaire finds Enjolras’s hand and entwines their fingers, staying silent. Even though the van’s engine is loud and the road is bumpy, Grantaire falls asleep, his head resting on Enjolras’s shoulder.

When he wakes, Enjolras is saying his name, shaking his shoulder gently. “Grantaire,” he says, his voice hushed. “We’re here, wake up.”

They climb out of the van when Fantine opens the door, and they’re surrounded by the forest. The homestead is there, too, and everyone is standing outside of it, curious looks on their faces.

Enjolras stands by the van, arms hanging heavily by his sides. The look on his face makes Grantaire reach for his hand, lacing their fingers together once again.

“We’ve already lost a day,” Fantine tells them, but there’s a smile on her face. “We’re packing up and moving tomorrow.” Fantine walks up to the homestead, greeting everyone with a tired smile and a satisfied look in her eyes.

Grantaire turns, meeting Enjolras’s eyes. For a second, neither of them move, and then Grantaire is pulling Enjolras into his arms, breathing in the smell of his skin.

“You saved me,” Enjolras states. Grantaire can feel his mouth moving against his neck, breath hot against his cool skin. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Living in this world, it’s a miracle that they can stand together like this. No one will tell them to stop. No one can tell them no.

“I had to,” Grantaire says. “I _had_ to come, I couldn’t let them--”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras interrupts. “I’m okay. We’re okay.” Grantaire grins, holding on to him tighter. When they pull apart, Grantaire reaches up, brushing hair out of Enjolras’s eyes. “What happens now?” he asks.

“Anything we want,” Grantaire tells him. He’s giddy, almost hysteric. It’s too surreal, he can’t believe that after everything they went through, they’re both still alive.

“Anything?” Enjolras’s smiles spreads slowly from his lips, reaching all the way to his eyes.

“Anything and everything,” Grantaire confirms. Enjolras meets him halfway, their lips connecting. This is freedom, Grantaire thinks.

After hesitating, Enjolras states, “I think you’ve given me the _deliria_.” His thumb is brushing over Grantaire’s knuckles.

“It’s called love,” Grantaire says, grinning. Spring air brushes by them, making goosebumps rise on Enjolras, who shivers in response. The sun comes out from the clouds, warming their skin. “You can say it here. Nothing’s stopping you,” he tells him.

“Love,” Enjolras says, testing out the word, getting used to the feel of it on his tongue. When he smiles, he is, unsurprisingly, radiant.

 

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: lots of violence, Enjolras and Grantaire get kidnapped, Enjolras gets the shit beat out of him, Enjolras used to have cancer, there's some talk of starving but not in an eating disorder way. I think that's it, I hope I didn't miss any! If i did, feel free to let me know.
> 
> Let me know if you like it! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. You can find me on [tumblr](http://www.prouvairie.tumblr.com/).


End file.
